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I Hooked Up with a Demon and Now I Am Damned

I only saw Samael the demon once, but I still can’t get over it.
We met on that Ouija dating app.
“Are you sad?” the ads asked. “Insecure? Hopeless? A little overweight?”
“Yes,” I said, “yes, all of it.”
The smiling spokesperson leapt from my phone screen and appeared in my bedroom. I grabbed a sheet to cover myself, but he wasn’t even looking.
“We have just the app for you,” the man said. “Download Ouija now. Because even dating a demon, is better than dying alone.”
Then he was gone, replaced by a red glowing Download Now icon.
I clicked it and my phone became a Ouija board, just like the old board game but bigger, with spaces for emojis.
“Create your profile,” a voice said.
I never know what to write for these things, and moving the planchette across each letter took forever, so I kept my profile brief:
“Hi, I’m gay and sad. I love books and movies. I’m tired of being alone.”
“Is that all?” the voice asked.
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“Would you like to upload a picture?”
I catch my reflection in the mirror on my closet door and shudder. “I don’t think that would help.”
“OK,” the voice said. “Profile submitted.”
The Ouija flashed green and then turned back into my phone. I didn’t know what to expect next.
For almost an hour I waited, thinking someone might respond, but then I immediately felt like a huge dorky dumbass and tried to forget about the whole thing and go back to normal thoughts of dread and self-loathing.
*
I had almost succeeded in forgetting when one night, asleep next to my phone, I was awoken by a scream.
My phone had turned back into the Ouija board, and it shrieked like a burning banshee until I figured out I was supposed to put my hands on the planchette. The Ouija board quickly spelled out this message:
“Hi. I’m the archangel Samael. I like movies too. Wanna hook up?”
My heart started pounding and I felt lightheaded; I got obnoxiously over-excited in that ridiculous way I’ve always confused for love.
“Sure,” I spelled back.
“OK,” Samael said. “You’ll have to pick me up, I don’t drive.”
*
We planned to meet the next Saturday when my parents would be out of town. Although I finally had a real job after college, I was still saving up to move out.
Samael lived in one of Hell’s nicer neighborhoods, only a few hundred miles from the Texan hell-on-earth where I lived.
The whole way there I imagined what he’d be like and fantasized about us holding hands while we watched Netflix, going to a nice dinner and exchanging little gifts on our anniversary, getting an apartment together where we’d each have our own arm chairs and look up from what we were reading once in awhile to smile, not even needing to talk anymore because we’d know we felt. All that corny shit that was in the TV shows I watched for an episode or two, at least before the drama kicked in and the couples broke up. But even when we broke up, that’d be alright—because couples in stories always get back together, and it’s romantic AF, and the time apart just makes them appreciate each other even more. Finally I wouldn’t have to be alone; finally I’d feel Okay, because if someone else loved me, how bad could I be?
(Nevermind that my only previous boyfriend, a bipolar musician who ended up leaving me because I didn’t cry when he played and the new guy did, had provided almost none of these feelings or experiences, even though I’d been just as sure I would get all of them with him.)
I finally reached Samael’s parents’ castle but I was too shy to cross the fiery moat and bang on the door myself, so I messaged him on Ouija and he said he’d be right out.
He was shorter than I’d been expecting, but very cute—definitely the cutest demon I’d ever seen—and I found his glowing red eyes and anguished scowl kind of charming. He got in my car, tucking his pointed tail carefully behind him.
“Hey!” I said, unable—as always—to contain my excitement (or any of my feelings, for that matter).
I didn’t really know what the protocol was for meeting someone off an app, so I extended my hand for Samael to shake it.
He rolled his eyes and muttered “Hi,” his dismissive disinterest giving my heart the biggest boner.
“So what do you want to do, do you want to get something to eat or—”
“Aren’t we going back to your place, to fuck?”
I gulped. “Yeah I mean I figured we’d hang out there or something, just didn’t know if you were hungry or—”
“I ate today already,” he said. “A whole bus crash of bodies.”
“You eat people?”
“Well I’m not going to eat animals, that’s sick.”
I nodded, pulling out, getting a little scared, which felt to me like butterflies.
*
I tried to find out as much as I could about him on the drive back, but everything I said seemed to piss him off.
“I mostly listen to 102.1 The Edge, what kind of music do you like?”
“I don’t listen to radio,” he scoffed. “I listen to the wails of the damned.”
“I don’t’ think I’ve heard them yet,” I said. “Do they sound kind of like Radiohead or something?”
“Would you just watch the road?”
And Samael was right, I was getting distracted; I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. Maybe this was what Eve felt with the snake, drawn to something deadly and repulsive. Or maybe I was just so starved for any kind of attention that even a cold shoulder felt like a warm embrace.
*
When we finally got to my parents’ house, he followed me inside and I showed him around, asked him if he wanted anything to drink.
“Do you have virgin blood?” he asked.
“I have water, Sprite, and orange juice.”
He rolled his eyes again and I started to panic, knowing that I was blowing this.
“I could go to the store,” I said. “Maybe Whole Foods would have it?”
“Don’t worry about it, I’m not really here to drink.”
“Right,” I said. So he still wanted to hook up. I kinda felt relieved, like maybe I wasn’t a piece of shit after all, but I kinda felt even shittier, that no matter what I said it didn’t matter, I was just a hole.
He followed me into my bedroom and another fifteen minutes of me waffling he finally grabbed me, aiming my head at his demon dick. It felt more hot than rapey though, like the dom tops on the videos I’d seen.
His skin felt like fire and afterward I was red all over, like a horrible sunburn, and that kept me turned on for days as I peeled, his affectionate harm. I hadn’t been with a ton of guys and didn’t have much to compare Samael to, so maybe this was faint praise, but I told him he was the best lover I’d ever had by far.
“Love has nothing to do with it,” he said, wiping himself off on my laundry and putting on his clothes. “I don’t do love. You were an alright fuck though.”
“Thanks,” I said, monetarily pleased; this was the only nice thing he’d said to me so far. But then, now that he was getting dressed and about to leave, all the closeness I’d just felt, the okayness, it was fading fast, its dim light stamped out by the fear of abandonment, of again being alone in the dark.
“Don’t you want to stay the night?” I asked—okay, pleaded.
His fiery eyes flashed and his tail arched like a scorpion’s. “Are you trying to kidnap me or something? Are you saying I can’t leave? Do you know how fucked up that is?”
“Of course not,” I said, “I just… I’m not used to all this, I’ve never had a one-night stand or whatever, and I really like you—”
“You don’t even know me. You just want me for my dick. You’re just like everyone else.”
“That’s literally the opposite of what I’m saying,” I tried to explain. “I mean obviously I liked having sex, feeling close to someone, but I was hoping you’d want more? I didn’t know Ouija was just a hookup app. Couldn’t we get something to eat? I’ll even try victim-flesh or whatever, you can pick.”
He seemed to relax and calm down, although later he’d act like I’d bludgeoned him and he was just giving in. But he finally said softly, “There was this cemetery I wanted to try, if you felt like taking me there I guess we could eat and then maybe watch a movie or something.”
*
So we went to the cemetery and I watched as he dug up graves and picked rotting flesh off people’s bones, and I took a little bite—it tasted like rubber to me, but he acted like it was a delicacy, and I loved seeing Samael so excited. Afterward I offered again for him to stay the night, and he begrudgingly agreed. I thought this meant he was starting to like me and that more than made up for all the flesh-eating, and for round two of sex, which I agreed to even though my charred skin was starting to get sore.
That night in bed I was so happy, my first time not sleeping alone. I asked if I could take his picture and he agreed, even managing to smile, looking like an adorable (fallen) angel. For the rest of my life I’ll regret not making it a selfie with both of us, but at the time I just wanted something to preserve this moment, these few hours where I felt full and whole instead of like a bottomless pit of need. I couldn’t believe how quickly I fell asleep—like after all these years of insomnia, trying baths and sleep schedules and every different pill, all I needed was to be near someone and I could sleep fine.
But the next morning, he was gone.
*
“How did you get home?” I messaged him, barely able to hold the Ouija’s planchette because of how much my hands were shaking.
“I called a friend to give me a ride,” Samael said.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“I told you, I didn’t want to stay the night.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling like the shittiest shit, questioning everything I’d done. Had I talked him into being picked up by me, had I coerced him into fucking me, had I dragged him at gunpoint to the cemetery for his gourmet meal I wasn’t even into, hypnotized him into fucking me again? It didn’t seem like it—but maybe. If he was saying it, if he was mad, he had to be right. Everyone who’s mad at me is always right.
“Let me make it up to you,” I said. “I’ll do anything. I just want to see you again. I didn’t mean to move too fast. I don’t even have to talk—if you just want me to pick you up and let you fuck me and then take you back home, that’s fine. I’ll do anything for another chance.”
I’m full-on weeping over the Ouija board now, sparks flying from it, burning my already-singed fingers.
“Fuck off,” he said.
And I want to, but I can’t.
*
I’ve never tried it, but I imagine this is what heroin feels like, something so powerful, so far beyond normal human experience, so painfully pleasurable, that it erases everything else and becomes all you can see.
I message him for hours, days, weeks, wearing the planchette down into splinters, which destroys my phone. Then I get a new phone, a new account, and message him from there. 99 times out of 100 he doesn’t reply, but then he does—“This is harassment. Stop messaging me” etc etc—but his stop signs feel like green lights.
I mope about him to everyone that will listen: my parents (I leave out the sex), my friends (I minimize my desperation), my therapist (I tell the whole story, even bringing in transcripts of our conversations, knowing that I’m beyond boring but feeling like I pay for that privilege). Nobody gets it.
“He didn’t treat you well, you deserve better,” my parents say.
“It sounds like you just need to get laid more,” my friends suggest.
“This all seems very unhealthy,” my therapist diagnoses, “and why would you want to date a literal demon anyway?”
But what people can’t see is he ruined me for life. Because now nothing else compares. Any time I’ve tried to date since then, and believe me I’ve tried, all I can feel is what I’m missing.
The last guy who kissed me, who told me I mattered, who wanted to hold hands and go to dinner and read together and all that corny shit I thought I desired, all I could think was—why doesn’t this hurt? Why am I not burned?
Because now, for me, if it’s not painful, it’s not love.
Even in heaven, I’ll still be missing hell.
submitted by postitbreakup1 to Horror_stories

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