Mistleton and Other Men

“You gotta be kidding me!” Woody knew that Mistleton came from some money, but it wasn’t until he stood in front of that farmhouse for the first time that he truly grasped just how charmed Mistleton’s life was.

The house itself wasn’t majestic by any stretch of the imagination—there were no sprawling estates or manicured gardens—but there was something undeniably impressive about it. Standing there, Woody felt the weight of it, a subtle but undeniable reminder of the different worlds they came from.

When Mistleton invited him to join the project and move to the farm, Woody asked him about what to expect. “It’s just an early 19th-century two-story brick farmhouse—six-over-six sash windows, green shutters, white porch, chimneys at both ends,” Mistleton replied, brushing it off as nothing special. “With some grapes growing around it.”

Standing in front of it, Woody saw something completely different—a stoic, weathered landmark from another era, whose red brick facade had been softened by time. The tall, narrow windows stared out at him like quiet sentinels, watching over the sprawling vineyard to the north. The once-grand portico, a little worse for wear, retained an air of dignity, the white columns flanking the entrance like aging pillars of an ancient temple. For him, the house exuded a sense of forgotten grandeur, the kind of place that had seen centuries of history unfold before it, all of it locked within its walls.

From the house, the farm stretched in all directions. About 500 yards from the portico, a red barn stood out against a line of trees marking the northwestern boundary of the farm’s main vineyard. Beyond them, a flat plain extended another 500 yards or so to a steep bluff overlooking the lake. To the south, the vineyards gave way to patchworks of cornfields and woodlands of mixed hardwoods and evergreens. The stand of twisted old hawthorns for which the farm was now famous flanked the house to the northeast. The entire setting—from the house and barn to the vineyards, fields, and trees, all of it under a brilliant blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds—filled Woody with a sense of wonder.

Mistleton inherited the farm from an eccentric great uncle who had designated Mistleton’s father as guardian and allowed his nephew to live there with his wife until death, at which time it would pass to their firstborn. That day came sooner than anyone expected. Not long after his return to the United States, Mistleton received the news that his parents died in a car accident.

Unprepared at the time for the decisions in front of him and uncertain whether he could truly embrace the consequences—to be specific, a parochial life in an intellectually stifling town—Mistleton turned his back on the family farm, shut down the house, and retreated into the anonymity of his adopted city. The house sat closed until Mistleton returned to reopen it. Through it all, the family’s farm overseer, Hunter, remained on the estate, diligently caring for the vineyard and maintaining the rest of the property.

The son of a loading dock foreman at the grape juice factory in East Plainfield, Hunter paid his own way through college and graduate school, completing an online MBA program while working on the factory’s production line. Locally born and bred and an avid outdoorsman, he had no interest in moving away for a corporate job or spending every day in an office. When a supervisory position opened at Mistleton Farm, he seized the chance. With a playful grin, he’d claim it was his destiny.  

And, captivated by his rugged good looks, people usually believed him. Hunter had a solid, strong face with broad features and a square jaw. His wide, focused brown eyes were under thick, straight eyebrows. His hair was thick, light brown with some darker brown, neatly combed to one side and cut shorter on the sides than on top but still full. He stood tall, with broad shoulders, a sturdy neck, and muscular arms and legs, making him look both strong and quick. His sculpted physique became strikingly evident whenever he wore one of his tight-fitting T-shirts, which accentuated his arms and defined chest. Lightly dusted with just the right amount of body hair, he had the kind of baked-in tan that only comes from spending long hours in the sun.

Unlike Hunter, little of what Woodson Miller had to offer physically was likely to incite raw carnal desire. He was lean, slightly framed, and fair skinned. He would never go so far as to describe himself as muscular or even toned. He definitely wasn’t athletic. He had a subtle, playful smile, a smooth and slightly doughy complexion, and unremarkable blond hair. His clothes draped over his frame, as if barely clinging to a wire hanger.

Woody accepted Mistleton’s offer to join him at the farm with a degree of skepticism. He knew he was a good marketing specialist, and he sensed an emotional connection during their first months of courtship. Woody’s extroversion was an ideal foil to Mistleton’s introversion. Woody felt that as a team, they had the will and the skills to engage while at the same time maintaining a certain degree of privacy and detachment from the outside world.

When they were both still in Philadelphia, they had an active sex life, though after their first encounter they fell into a pattern with defined roles. More passive and, as he soon discovered, less experienced, Woody let Mistleton lead in bed. More physically fit of the two of them, Mistleton lifted and flipped Woody as effortlessly as an ultralight carbon bicycle frame, and he mounted him firmly, like a bike rack to the roof of a car. Afterwards, without even cleaning up, Mistleton would slip into a kit and hop on his bike for a quick spin through Fairmount Park, leaving Woody feeling depleted, as if he’d just ridden a century.

Woody sometimes wondered if Mistleton felt any physical connection to him or whether during sex he was merely going through the motions to get them both to climax. Now that he had made the move, he wondered whether Mistleton felt any emotional connection either. All he wanted—needed—was a sign that their relationship had a future.