Witches were fearsome creatures in my youth. These wanton women consorted with Satan and their roaming succubi seduced the souls of pure men. Throughout the 70s and 80s I ran into their decadent descendants finally meeting Elena, a Spanish flamenco dancer. We lived together in my East Village apartment for several months. My bed became a sexual circus maximus. The dark-haired twenty year-old became good friends with the ancient four-foot-three bruja next door. Mrs.Adorno and Elena chanted Santeria songs between glasses of sweet white wine. Each time she returned from these pagan rites with Senora Adorno, I feared for the loss of my soul to her passion.

I was not Elena’s only lover.

Her lust was insatiable.

My jealousy triumphed over lust and I threw her out in the summer. Elena cried upon saying good-bye to Mrs. Adorno. That night the old senora laid dry chicken bones on my doorstep and her crackling voice spat out a curse in Puerto Rican.

“You will never have sex again.” I didn’t need subtitles to decipher her punishment, but I laughed with the macho pride to hide my fright.

“Laugh, but you see not funny.” She slammed the door in my face.

funny it wasn’t, for Mrs. Adorno’s spell led to a long stretch of celibacy. No woman wanted me. Several months later I begged the shrinking witch for mercy, which she gave it with a smile.

“Not funny?”

“Not funny.” I hadn’t held hands with anything, but a beer can since Elena’s forced departure.

“We live close for 20 years and you do nothing wrong, then you hurt this girl.”

“You’re right.” I had been wrong to throw out Elena. I missed more than the sex and started to tell her an excuse. She cupped her clawlike hands over her wrinkled ears. “Say nothing. You suffer enough.”

She spat on the floor and sketched an arcane sign in the air.

“Now you have sex again. But not like before.”

“Something is better than nothing.”

“Now you know.”

And knowing makes believing easy.