By Angela Tung

In this summer’s horror hit, The Omen, Damian’s nanny offs herself, his mother is killed by the new nanny and zoo animals go bonkers. So you’d think I’d stay away from someone who described himself as a Satanist.

But it had been four months since my first post-divorce boyfriend dumped me. By this past February I felt ready to date again and re-posted my online ad. “Single Asian female seeks male. Be smart, funny and cute, in that order please.”  Initially, promising email exchanges fizzled out. Middle-aged white men contacted me in what they assumed was my native tongue (e.g. “Ni hau?”).  Seemingly cute boys sent me lazy messages—“Tell me about yourself,” or worse, “’Sup?”—forced me to do all the work.

So, in comparison, the new guy’s message was, well, a godsend. He wrote that my ad had made him laugh, “Bea Arthur is sexy; Estelle Getty is sexier…” and that I seemed cute and interesting. In his picture he appeared average looking, but that was OK since not everyone was photogenic. However, a line in his description gave me pause: “I’m a Satanist. If you have a problem with this, tough.”

I wasn’t sure what Satanism was though I knew that, unlike in movies like The Omen, it probably didn’t really involve suicide, murder and screaming primates. I looked it up and found that the philosophy focused on advancement of one’s self with guidance from external higher beings or external principles, instead of submission to a deity or moral codes.

That didn’t sound too bad, and I liked that he didn’t care what people thought. I didn’t either. As a 33-year-old divorced agnostic who had moved from Westchester back into the city, I was tired of being a good Chinese girl who dated nice Asian boys. I was interested in guys with an edge. Still I wrote back cautiously, “Are you really Satanist? What does that mean?” He replied good-naturedly that he didn’t answer to any god and that his main concern was with life on earth, but that he still always managed to put other people before himself.  Not bad.

Exchanging more emails, I found that we were both adventurous eaters. My latest foray was cod sperm sacs during my vacation in Japan, while one of his favorites was ice cream with habanero chilies. We agreed that people should take more responsibility and not attribute events to luck—good or bad. We were both “Law & Order” junkies, “SVU” for me and “Criminal Intent” for him.

Finally, he asked if I wanted to have dinner. I said yes. Despite bowing down to Beelzebub, he seemed like a nice guy. On the phone before our date, he was easy to talk to and didn’t sound like Regan from The Exorcist. He sounded like an Italian-American from the Bronx. I was in the mood for sushi and asked him if he had any suggestions.

“I do,” he replied enthusiastically. “My favorite is East.”

To me East was the Ground Round of New York Japanese restaurants, where I hadn’t been since college. But I let it go. “Sure,” I said. “That sounds great.”

Meanwhile my friends took every opportunity to make fun of me.

“Will you have to sacrifice a goat before the date?” Yiannis asked.

“What if he wants you to meet his parents?” said Pei-ling. “Will you have time to go all way to hell and back?”

“If you have kids,” Sandy inquired, “how will you raise them? Good or evil?”  

On the night of our date, the moon was full, and a chilly March wind blew. As I walked down Third Avenue, I thought I heard a howl in the distance. But I was in Murray Hill, so it might have been a drunk frat boy. As I neared the restaurant, I wasn’t sure what to expect. A long black cape? A hood and sickle? A blinged-out pentagram on a chain? What I saw was worse than I expected.

He was short. I mean, really short. In his ad he had described himself as 5’7”, but at 5’3” in heels, I towered over him. When we sat down to eat, I saw that he had bad teeth, dull eyes and a too-round face. Yes, he was kind and polite. He laughed at my jokes and didn’t say anything Lucifer-like. He seemed more interested in theology. The next day he sent me a message, letting me know he had a wonderful time.

At first I didn’t write him back, hoping he’d take a hint, but then he sent me a second message. While he seemed like a nice guy, I answered, I just didn’t feel a spark. Plus, he was a Satanist.

Since then I’ve become more discerning. I won’t date a smoker or a heavy drug user. I only like guys 5’8” and above. Although I’m still open-minded about race, religion and creed, if he’s going to be a devil worshipper, he’d better be a hot one.