Desperate Incubi

There's a gentleman in his thirties who has integrated himself into my social group.  He's a graduate student and shows up at most of the parties held by theatre people.  And come 3 AM (the Witching Hour, incidentally), whether he's drunk or not, he tries to get into someone's pants.  Including mine (and I'm just not interested in men).  In fact, he's been going about it while sober lately, too.

The funny thing is that he also reacts to religious symbols with a perceptible aversion, not even acknowledging the bearer.  Not only that, but he appears to sustain contact burns from silver and can't cross a line of salt (as was evidenced by my paranoid actions at a friend's house party).  The likely cause:  He's an Incubus.  While I shy from calling him a demon per se, Incubus is as good a title as any.  He likes sex.  A lot. And he responds to supernatural stimuli like the namesake.  So he's either one or a supernaturally resonant nymphomaniac.

And if he's hitting on me, he must be pretty desperate.