Peter Steele

"Jesus Christ looks like me."

— Peter Steele, ruining my life in five words

For someone who loudly proclaims her undying love for Peter Steele right there in her bio, there’s a suspicious lack of Peter Steele content on this blog.

 

Yes—there’s the emotional mess I filed under October Rust.

And sure, if you squint, he’s everywhere.

In how I write, how I think, how I instinctively judge anyone with a deep voice and unresolved Catholic guilt.

 

He’s not a reference.

He’s a benchmark.

 

But the full meltdown?

The unfiltered obsession?

The public breakdown in long form?

 

That’s been kept internal. Respectable.

 

Until now.

 

Because yesterday was one of those days.

The kind where nothing’s technically wrong, but everything’s emotionally beige.

The tea’s gone cold. The laundry’s giving me side-eye. My brain’s just—looping.

 

And I thought:

You know what? Screw it.

If I’m going to fall back into my favourite delusion again, I might as well do it properly.

Loudly. Publicly. Unapologetically.

 

So I’m taking you with me.

 

This post is not even remotely well-adjusted.

 

It’s just what happens when you fall face-first into a Peter Steele video—again—and decide to document your emotional collapse in real time, like a dignified adult with no coping skills.

 

Do I sound unhinged?

Absolutely.

Do I care?

Not even slightly.

 

Because if Peter Steele lives rent-free in my head, heart, and search history,

then he damn well deserves his own shrine here too.

 

Disclaimer:

If you still see me as someone with dignity or composure, now’s the time to quietly back out the door. Seriously.

 

This piece is for the people who already know I checked my self-respect at the door the moment I saw the recording of Peter Steele performing Christian Woman at Dynamo Fest 1995.

My desk. In the corner of the kitchen.

Middle of the day. Headphones on.

Researching something vaguely music-adjacent with twelve open tabs and half a brain.

And then the algorithm—that smug little bastard—served me this.

 

I clicked.

Casual curiosity. Background noise.

And thirty minutes later I was still there, eyes wide, completely emotionally compromised.

 

Just sat there, utterly done for.

That specific kind of shock where you don’t even know what you’re feeling—

 

Only that it’s too much and far too specific.

Let’s just take a moment to acknowledge how outrageously attractive Peter Steele was in 1995.

Not in a "hmm, objectively handsome" way.

No.

In a deeply offensive, spine-snapping, scream-into-your-pillow kind of way.

 

The man was tall.

Like, "evolution took one look at this guy and said 'make it taller'" tall.

He could’ve blocked out the sun with one shoulder.

 

His jawline should be regulated.

His nose—are you kidding me?

Perfect. Sharp. Devastating from every angle.

You know how most people have a "good side"?

Peter Steele was the good side.

Of humanity. As a concept.

 

He plays bass with one hand—just his left on the neck, because the right is apparently reserved for theatrics and wine.

And the bass?

It hangs from a chain.

A full metal chain.

Because regular straps are for people under six foot eight.

And the way he rips the bass strings out at the end? Yeah. I think I blacked out.

 

And the voice?

Oh, the voice.

That low, slow, funeral dirge of seduction.

Like if velvet could growl.

Like someone buried a baritone in a swamp and it crawled back out to recite your sins.
The way he slurs those lyrics in this live performance. God help me.

 

And he didn’t even seem to try.

He had that completely disinterested, mildly irritated "I could snap your spine but I won’t because I’m bored" energy.

Which, of course, only made it worse.

Because some of us (me) are emotionally broken in just the right ways for that.

 

This wasn’t just good genetics.

It was a cosmic prank.

A divine-level flex no one asked for—and now we all have to live with the consequences.

 

And the rest of the band?

 

Absolutely killing it.

Tight. Loud. Doing the devil’s work.

 

Do I notice?

Nope.

Because I physically cannot take my eyes off this god-as-a-man standing centre-stage, sipping wine like a funeral priest and ruining my ability to function.

So.

Being turned on by Peter Steele on stage.

Yeah, yeah. We’ve all been there. No big deal.

 

But wait.

Hold my wine.

 

This is where it gets interesting.

 

Because that wasn’t the peak.

That was just the gateway.

Now the fun part begins.

Enter: Limerence.

Because Peter was—allegedly, repeatedly, heartbreakingly—soft.

 

A cat man.

A romantic.

Quiet. Private.

Probably the kind of person who’d carefully trap a spider in a glass and release it outside without making a big deal about it.

 

You read a few stories—hear the way people talk about him—and suddenly you’re not just watching an old concert video.

You’re picturing him in your kitchen.

Helping you chop onions.

Talking with (not to! with!) your cat.

Casually breaking your cupboard door off its hinges because he forgot how massive he is indoors.

 

He looks like a villain from a vampire movie, but acts—apparently—like a slightly tired guy who fosters animals and just wants everyone to get home safe.

 

And that? That’s it.

That’s the combo that breaks people like me.

 

Because I love men who love cats.

I love men who look like they could destroy the world but would rather just—carry the groceries.

And I especially love when those men are six foot eight and accidentally cause minor property damage just by existing.

 

Yes, I know this is all projection.

I’m fully aware this is limerence.

But I don’t care.

This is a safe, dumb, beautiful fantasy and I’ve already decided we’re having pesto tonight.

 

Because knowing Peter wasn’t just beautiful, but gentle?

That’s not just hot.

That’s measured-in-pasta-portions level unrecoverable.

So.

It started with Dynamo Festival and ended in domestic bliss.

Solid.

Usual Tuesday.

 

What they don’t warn you about is what happens when you type "Peter Steele" into a search bar.

Because once you do?

That’s it.

The algorithm takes over.

And suddenly, Pinterest has forgotten what food is.

 

Now?

Pinterest no longer shows me food.

Or design ideas.

Or literally anything else.

Just Peter. All Peter. Always Peter.

 

Peter in stripes.

Peter with curls.

Peter in his pre-goth, beefcake Carnivore phase looking like he just bench-pressed a dumpster.

Peter in that one profile shot where the light hits his jaw and I feel religious guilt for not being taller.

 

It’s all good.

Mostly.

 

Until I hit The No Eyebrows Phase.

And I swear to God, I physically recoiled.

 

He looked like Nosferatu had joined a glam band and was mid-existential crisis.

It wasn’t even kind of ugly-hot. It was just upsetting.

And I say that with love. With passion. With years of hypothetical devotion.

 

But still.

Peter. Darling.

Come back when you have eyebrows.

 

And then—to make matters worse—I stumble across the quote.

The one where he says he preferred taller women.

Something about saving his back.

He was too tall to bend down, apparently.

 

Excuse me?

Screw your back, Peter.

 

Use the bloody counter.

That’s what kitchen surfaces are for.

What am I meant to do, grow? 

 

But oh well.

It’s not like I would’ve survived him anyway.

In no scenario. In no dimension. Counter or not.

But let’s be honest:

Peter Steele’s voice is the whole deal.

 

The rest of it—the height, the hair, the jawline that could ruin nations—it’s great. Sure.

But the voice?

That’s the soul.

 

That low, slow, disarmingly soft baritone—

it doesn’t announce itself.

It just arrives.

Slips into your bloodstream.

Uninvited. Permanent.

 

There’s something about deep voices.

Always has been.

I don’t question it anymore.

It’s just—my thing.

Some people like six-packs.

I like men who sound like the earth itself is sighing.

 

And Peter’s voice?

It’s not even trying.

It’s like it woke up tired, poured itself into the mic, and said,

"Here. Feel this."

 

And I do.

Every time.

 

I put it on when life is too much.

And suddenly I’m fine.

Not fixed—just carried.

Held.

Wrecked gently by a voice I trust more than my own therapist.

 

Honestly, it’s convenient.

My escape plan lives in my headphones. And it sounds like Peter Steele.

Am I maybe a bit too into all of this?

Obviously.

 

But am I ashamed of it?

Absolutely not.

 

Because having a crush—especially one this wildly impractical and safely posthumous—is one of life’s better coping mechanisms.

It’s warm. It’s fun. It gives my brain something beautifully ridiculous to latch onto.

 

And if the man in question isn’t even around anymore to disappoint me?

Even better.

(Sorry, Peter. I love you. Genuinely.)

 

So no. I’m not embarrassed. I own this shit.

You can laugh, cringe, eye-roll—I’ve already done all three.

 

I proudly, ferally, and without a shred of self-preservation declare Peter Steele my number one limerence hyperfixation.

 

And honestly?

We could both do worse.