In 2016, through the grace of my generous Aunt and her imminently expiring Air Miles, I spent two weeks driving around Tennessee and Kentucky on a solo road trip. It was a trip that changed me forever (for the better)
That first night out in Nashville was election night.
Before the trip, I’d done what any sane single adult would do and paid for the tinder upgrade so I could change my location. I was swiping my way through Appalachia like I was preparing for some kind of sex tour. My profile read: Nashville Nov.7-9, Memphis Nov. 10-13, etc. and that I was just looking for some fun dates and maybe some hot dick (Ok, so I didn’t literally type out HOT DICK, but I mean, the hot dick was implied). The possibilities were endless. Looking back now, with the clarity of hindsight, I had started swiping way WAY too late. I should’ve been preparing this trip for weeks, months even. And also, I should’ve been more of an asshole.
See, the thing is, I’ve always been incredibly considerate (I know right, I’m such a saint) of other people’s time (which is probably why conversely I’m super intense when they’ve wasted mine), so I wasn’t akin to double booking. But, and no real spoilers here, if this trip taught me anything it’s that you should ABSOLUTELY double—dare I even say triple—book yourself when on vacation because men can be real flakey pieces of shit (that is, when they’re not talking you out of going out with them by being incredibly lame/stupide/offsensive/boring/etc.) and vacation time is limited. But all of that is really an “entire vacation” problem and right now we’re talking Nashville, and Nashville was good to me.
The night of our date, I let him pick the bar—I figured he’d know where it was safe and fun to go. At this point I was basically preparing for Hilary’s presidency, and I wasn’t sure we wanted to be an interracial couple on a first date in Tennessee the night the racists lost (the hindsight of this being so painful I want to scream). With a diet coke in my hand and a beer in his, we watched the election results roll in like air being slowly let out of a tire. It really hadn’t ever occurred to me that Trump could actually win. I mean, he’s not even a charismatic asshole, he’s just a real gross and pathetic monster propped up by other rich white men and disgusting values. And yet here we were, two hours into what would have otherwise been a not-bad first date, and yet both our hearts were being slowly broken. I would put more attention on how terrible this must’ve been for my date to watch except that I don’t really know. First dates are usually full of talking about jobs and friends and ways you like to have fun and not so much how your country full of racist white people have continued and will continue to let you down as a Black man in America. Still though, I can guess because even as a privileged white Canadian woman, I was devastated. The conversation was good and fun and flirty but honestly, there just came a point when we had to call it a night. Looking back now, it’s so wild I didn’t fuck the dude—I mean, I already had a hotel room and no plans for the evening. But, when I tell you that watching a country flash before your eyes is a bit of a boner killer, you can understand my hesitancy.
Outside the bar, he walked me to my rental car, which was pretty cute and gentlemanly, and by which, I mean he walked me towards my rental car and then we both stopped short to discuss maybe seeing each other again while I was still in town and then he kissed me.
Making out on the side of the road in Nashville on my first night out in town seemed like a pretty good start to my trip. Then it started to rain and damn if we weren’t just a couple of cuties in our own romcom (minus the devastation of the election results). We parted lips and then parted ways and in classic cool-bitch fashion, I mixed up the unlock/alarm button on the unfamiliar key fob and promptly set off the piercing alarm of my rental car. Smooth as silk baybee!
On the way back to my hotel I stopped to get waffle house which isn’t as good as an orgasm but like, wasn’t nothing, ya know? I ended up eating my less than satisfactory meal in my hotel room (which tbh sounds like the level of sexual satisfaction a cishet woman usually gets from a random hookup). Nobody told me that you’re only supposed to eat breakfast foods at Waffle House. Yet another lesson I was learning as a grown up.