What do you mean by "witchy"?

The pleasures and perils of dating post religion

Last month, I agreed to meet a man for a drink. I’d met this man for coffee once before, two years ago, and though the vibes were good we never connected for a second date. He had grey eyes, a slight build, and an accent. I thought he was interesting. I’ll call him Antonio.

He would text every so often to check in and try to plan a second meeting but it didn’t happen. We got our wires crossed one night last fall and he showed up to meet me for a date I thought was happening a week in the future. Even after that, he’d pop up in my phone every so often.

Two July’s ago, just before I met Antonio, my husband of 19 years moved out and I’d clumsily begun an attempt at navigating dating apps. The first app I downloaded, ever, was Feeld. I’ve linked the article in The New Yorker because it’s the reason I even found it. I was sobbing on my couch, my husband had recently taken the dog and his things, and I read the headline “The Hook Up App for the Emotionally Mature”. “That’s me,” I thought, wiping my nose with my sleeve. “I’m emotionally mature.” Lol.

Once I got the hang of Feeld and realized it wasn’t really for “dating” I downloaded Bumble, a normie app, alongside it, and matched with Antonio, the man I began writing this post about.

I give you this background to say that at the time I met him, I was newly exploring kink (via Feeld, for the first time in my life) and witchcraft (not for the first time in my life). I was deconstructing the heteronormative monogamy of Christianity in real time, with my body. I was no longer a person in a Christian marriage, so I thought, if I was going to be a slut physically, why not spiritually? Why not embrace the forbidden all at once. I did, in secret. I was working for a church as a music director, a job I’d held for 10 years, and I knew I had to keep my exploration private, and quiet. I did, until the essay I wrote about kink and witchcraft was published and I lost my job as a music director because of it. That was in May of this year. It was painful and sad, but ultimately it feels like I’ve been de-muzzled. I can finally be who I actually am. That person is definitely not an orthodox (traditional, faithful, observant) Christian. That person is in process, in progress, becoming.

So back to Antonio. We met a month ago, for a drink in Montrose. Since we’d met on Bumble originally, I’d seen him on Hinge and he included a line in his bio about going to church on Sundays. I noted that and filed it away. When we met, the grey eyes were eye-ing. We had a good conversation. It was flirty. I was on antibiotics for a sinus infection so I wasn’t drinking but I didn’t need it. Our conversation was quick and light. There was a vibe.

He told me about his family, where they’re from, how and when he came to the U.S. I asked him if his family was religious. “My parents were Catholic but not believers. I’m a believer,” he said, “but not religious.”

Reader, if you’ve ever been anywhere near evangelicals you know they love to make this distinction between real, bonafide “believers” and those who are just “religious”. They think, often, many of them, they are the only real Christians, and the rest of the world, like the millions (billions?) of Catholics are just going through the motions.

“Are you a Christian?” I asked. “I read my Bible every morning”, he answered, his grey eyes suddenly less flirty. I said, “Sir, you don’t want me, I’m a witch.”

It came out like a sneeze. I couldn’t stop myself from saying it. In the past, I would’ve identified myself less frankly, maybe something like “I’m into alternative spirituality”, hoping I could convince this person that I’m not the evil stereotype they’re thinking of, but rather just a person who doesn’t identify with patriarchal religion and prefers spells to prayers. (They’re very similar, btw. There’s a lot more to it but for now, moving on). The bottom line is that I’m finished twisting myself into a shape that is palatable to a man, the church, anyone. Completely done.

We agreed we were not right for each other. I stopped the date and we walked outside the bar and Antonio kissed me. Like, without warning, swooped in, wrapped his arms around me, and didn’t seem keen to let go. I pulled back. “I need to go”, I said. He walked me to my car, and performed the whole kiss and swoop again, whispering something about how hot I am, how attracted he was to me. I felt a little scared to be honest. I was sensing that he thought because of my spirituality, maybe, my disinterest in Christian sexual mores, I would automatically be down. It makes me kind of sick to write that even now. I pushed him off (laughing and smiling because women are trained not to invoke the anger of a man, especially one that is sexually harrassing you) and drove home. He texted me half a dozen times repeating the same thing: you’re so hot. I want you. Gross. In my best professor I wrote “I’m not interested in pursuing anything further with you, but I wish you the best.” That stopped his texts.

I made a short video about this interaction on Tik Tok and it has 112.2k views to date. Many of the commenters identified with similar experiences as witches encountering Christians, and suggested getting this bit of info out of the way before a date. I couldn’t agree more. I added a line to my bio on the dating apps (yes, apps, plural, your girl loves love). It says “Very witchy. Not going to church with you.” Shrug emoji.

This morning my new declaration weeded out a 55 year old divorced dad who lives in a suburb. He sent me a note saying he liked my pictures (especially the thirst trap-y one) and then he asked “What does the witchy comment mean?” I unmatched. Google it, bro.

Happy Saturday, babes.