[Continued from "Just When It Was Perfect … (Part 2)."]

I always waited for Charles to contact me before we got together.  Jules Verne I scheduled.  I suggested he become my regular Monday guy and he complied.  He was amazingly regular and reliable.  On the Mondays when I just didn’t hear from him he always apologized for being hard to reach.

Which he was usually because he’d lost his phone.  Or had it “stolen.”  The one time his phone was “stolen,” I assured him it was just lost.  He was in Tahoe on what sounded like an alcohol-fueled trip of debauchery when he left his phone somewhere whilst he frolicked in a hot tub.  Amazingly, his phone was not where he left it when he emerged from his sous-vide bath.

He had wooed me via Twitter, and I had also ranked him highly on OkCupid.  The two were completely coincidental, but when he saw that I had ranked him on OkCupid he took the opportunity to inform me that we should most definitely meet.  I agreed.

We met at a busy bar/restaurant.  I was annoyed by the bridge and tunnel crowd, and his assertion that he was “wearing a jacket” didn’t do much to assuage my annoyance.  The place was packed.  There were several guys wearing jackets.  I understood he meant a blazer vs. any other kind of jacket, but his description still didn’t allow me to pick him out of the big crowd.

We met out front.  Pretty quickly we were drinking margaritas, which helped get me out of my shit mood.  We drank.  We ate.  We talked.  He was young – only 24 – and had gotten out of college recently enough that both his Twitter name and conversation were related to his alma mater.  He talked about college in a way that made it clear the experience was both recent and beloved.

He was wearing a jacket.  With a pocket square.  He was preppy.  It was as if he saw the J. Crew catalog back in the 90s and dressed from it.  Only he wasn’t old enough to dress himself back in the 90s.

He was also blond haired and blue eyed.  Not my type.  Not that I have much of a type, but generally light hair and eyes do little for me, and especially not in a silly preppy package.

He had asked if I was Jewish, which has not been an uncommon question in my adulthood.  From what I’ve sussed, people think I’m Jewish by a combination of my nose and my attitude.  The nose is big and Native American.  The attitude, while honed completely in California, the only place I’ve ever lived, seems to be New York.  Usually it’s goyim who ask, presumably because members of the Tribe can recognize their own.

Which is why it was a bit of a surprise when Jules Verne told me the reason he wouldn’t get any tattoos was so he could be buried in his family cemetery.  So he, a Jew, thought I was a Jew?  That was unusual.  I suppose if I had been asked I wouldn’t have supposed that he was Jewish, considering his WASP-y looks.  Well, I already knew something about his cock.

I did not find out that his cock was not only circumcised but also thick and very hard that night.  That didn’t happen until the Day of Fuck.

After that we had semi-regular trysts ….

I swear true story.

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