In 2016, the company that manages Air Miles had a little baby meltdown and told everyone that their points would be expiring. My generous Aunt, made frantic by the news, gifted her miles to me to use. I did the obvious thing and planned a solo road trip throughout Tennessee and Kentucky. Did I know anyone in those states? Nope. Did I have nostalgic memories or even a real comprehensive reason to go there? Honestly, no. Did I pick Tennessee and Kentucky simply because I’d been watching a lot of Justified as of late? I think we’re getting warmer.
I’ve always had a real lust for certain types of Americana (mainly those based on food, style, and fun accents while ignoring systemic racism and economic disparity). Perhaps even more important, he further south (and then additionally further east) you go in the United States, the more likely you are to find men who like fat women, which as a fat woman was my favorite kind of men.
Before the trip, I’d done what any sane single adult would do and bought the tinder upgrade so I could move my location around. I swiped my way through Appalachia like I was preparing for some kind of music tour (by which I mean sex, which is pretty rock and roll of me if I do say so myself).
My profile read: 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). And then I included all the dates I’d be in each town (to make it easier to get murdered) to make sure I had as many dates lined up as possible.
Nashville Nov.7-9
Memphis Nov. 10-13
Paducah Nov. 14
Louisville Nov. 15-17
Corbin Nov. 18
Knoxville Nov. 19-21
Nashville Nov. 22-23
When I tell you what a scheduling nightmare it all became, you have to believe me because oooh boy things went sideways whenever given the chance. More on that later. For now, 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 for this trip for weeks, months even (and also, I should’ve been way more of a selfish asshole when it came to my own time).
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). All of this is to say that double booking dates was not something that came naturally to me. 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 vacation time is limited, and men can be real flakey pieces of shit (when they’re not actively talking you out of going out with them by being incredibly lame/stupid/offensive/boring/etc.). I’m getting ahead of myself though because that’s really more of an “entire vacation” problem and we’re talking about Nashville right now. Nashville was good to me, mostly.
My first night in Nashville is brutal. I develop a migraine on the second leg of my journey which persists well after checking in and taking a shower. Pain aside, I’m unfazed, because I’d planned the first night as a loss anyway. Even without the migraine I knew I’d need time to adjust. The second night in Nashville is election night 2016.
I let my date pick the bar figuring he’d know somewhere 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 is so painful I want to scream. I still can’t believe he who must not be named, those three clowns in a trench coat, that cheese powdered face in a straw wig became the president of the United States (the stain of that shame will remain forever).
The date started out wonderfully. With a diet coke in my hand and a beer in his, we watched the election results roll in like a leaking air mattress you’re trying to sleep on. It really hadn’t ever occurred to me that Trump could actually win. My naivety and optimistic belief in people clearly know no bounds. 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.
Yet here we were, two hours into what would have otherwise been a not-bad first date, and both our hearts were being slowly broken in real time. 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, has continued and will continue to let you down as a Black man in America. Still though, I think it’s safe to guess because even as a privileged white Canadian woman, I was devastated (and it wasn’t even my country). Nonetheless, the conversation somehow managed to be 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 my date—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.
When I had left the hotel on my way to the bar to meet my date, I hadn’t planned to fuck him because I was nervous and scared and in a strange place. Outside the bar, my date walked me to my rental car, which was pretty cute and gentlemanly. We both stopped short of the car to discuss maybe seeing each other again while I was still in town. At that point, I didn’t plan to fuck him because I thought we would hang out again (and that time we would fuck). He was going to text on my last night if he was arrived back in town in town (something about having to drive to bowling green for a work thing tomorrow). And then he leaned in and 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. It started to rain while we were kissing 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. Seconds later, 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!
We ended up texting but never hanging out again. He didn’t get back into town in time to hang out, and truthfully, I wasn’t that bothered. We weren’t soulmates, just two people having fun and trying to make their schedules fit. But after the devastation of the election, in some ways it was hard to regroup—at least with the same person.
On the way back to my hotel that night I stopped to get food at 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.