By Josh Inocéncio
As a kid, family road trips to Kentucky always began with Simon & Garfunkel. Buried under quilts in my makeshift fort in the backseat of our Nissan Pathfinder, I’d wake up somewhere between Houston and Beaumont to their smooth voices singing “Scarborough Fair” or “El Condor Pasa.” And on my first solo drive from Texas to Kentucky, I revived this childhood tradition, allowing Simon & Garfunkel—as well as the Fleet Foxes—to ready me for an eight-day journey throughout the state where I spent so many summers and winters with my Grams and the rest of my mother’s family.
This time, however, my aim wasn’t to just visit family. A huge part of me grew up closeted in Kentucky, and I know that—in a state of roughly four million folks—lots of other boys did, too. And while the cities of Louisville and Lexington brim with gay bars and rainbow crosswalks, there are plenty of guys living out and proud in smaller towns, too. I wanted to meet and connect with these fellow gay men across Kentucky, so I rebooted Tinder and Grindr.
My family mostly lives in London, the seat of Laurel County right off Interstate 75, so I set up camp there first. A small city in eastern Kentucky (as one can see from actor Stephen Fry’s road-trip stop there on BBC’s Stephen Fry in America), London’s nifty advantage is that other cities in the state are, for the most part, just a day trip away. When I first jumped on Tinder, I set my radius to 12 miles, wanting to match with guys in the rural regions. But given that Grindr is more popular in rural areas because it allows for greater anonymity for discreet users, the Tinder algorithms threw me beyond my narrow radius and into bigger cities like Lexington, Louisville, Bowling Green, and Berea where queer boys can comfortably be out. Thus, it was up to Grindr to link me with guys in more rural areas. And the app didn’t disappoint.
Within hours of arriving in London, several guys messaged me on Grindr, wondering why, as my profile indicated, I was writing about Kentucky. “Why Appalachia?” a guy named Jacob, the son of a Baptist minister, asked immediately. “If you’re a writer, I feel like I could offer you a unique perspective. I just don’t want wrong presumptions of this area to be made.”
“I just don’t want wrong presumptions of this area to be made.” —Jacob, gay son of a Baptist minister Photo by Josh Inocéncio.
Another guy warned me against indulging in “poverty porn.” Another recommended American Hollow, an HBO film directed by Rory Kennedy that featured his family and their lives in eastern Kentucky.
But the main suspicion, it seemed, was that I had no familiarity with the region, that I was from a coastal city like New York or Los Angeles, and that I was just another journalist in a tired lineage there to blast the desolation of Appalachia. Certainly, these reservations eased when I disclosed the time I had spent in Kentucky. But what every guy proved was that Kentucky—despite challenges of homophobia—is a place where gay men can thrive. That, just like Texas, the state government’s homophobic legislation (or Kim Davis) does not represent the views of every Kentuckian.
After establishing links over our families in Kentucky, Jacob and I met in person for a beach day at Laurel Lake. Tucked into the Daniel Boone National Forest where I hiked trails as a child in a coonskin cap, we rendezvoused in neighboring Whitley County and then drove to the spillway with the white sand beach.
Now, I had hiked in Daniel Boone before, but prior to this trip, I had never gone down to the lake (my mother would later tell me that she had many a wild night there as a teenager). But Jacob recommended the lake and unabashedly showed up to this rather conservative spot in a neon speedo. “I can generally tell if I’m going to get along with someone by how they react to the way I’m dressed,” he said.
With a backdrop of anti-Trump graffiti, Jacob and I chatted about Kentucky roots, going to college followed by grad school, staying well read, and traveling around the world. He had studied at the University of Louisville for a Master’s in College Student Personnel, and, like me, had moved back home to live with his parents and save money before his next move. We also talked about using Grindr to make friends in an area with no gay bars or gayborhoods.
After London, I drove to Berea for a weekend to visit friends and interview a gay writer who teaches at the city’s college. Founded with social justice aims in 1855, Berea was the first desegregated and co-educational college in the South. And while the town itself has struggled with LGBT rights, Berea College is a haven for queer Appalachian students. On Grindr, one student gave travel recommendations, such as the Berea Pinnacles (which are a fun hike!), and even offered me wine and homemade doughnuts while hanging out with a group of friends. In fact, everyone in Berea welcomed me when they saw I was a traveler, inviting me to community events and coffee conversations.
As far as Tinder in Kentucky, I matched and struck up conversations with several guys in Lexington, Louisville, and Bowling Green. From western Kentucky, I connected with a fellow Latino who had no desire to move to a bigger city because he loved the vibe in Bowling Green. And while we couldn’t meet this trip, we followed each other on Instagram and agreed to hang out next time.
But the most adventurous stop was Lexington.
I matched with Nate, who studied English in college. Right away we discovered we were both writers and swapped our favorite poets and playwrights on the app. When I got to Lexington, we met up and headed over to Third Street Stuff—a colorful coffeehouse that sells quirky trinkets—and discussed queer and non-queer cinema (we even made a Google doc to exchange titles). Embedded in our cinephilia, we shared how we had both obsessed over The Wizard of Oz as kids, even dressing up as Dorothy in red high heels. After coffee, he generously showed me around Lexington on a little walking tour that started near the Transylvania University campus and took us to plantation-style homes converted into contemporary condos. “I smell a mix of barbecue and KFC,” he sniffed, as we weaved through a public gathering filled with food-stands and U.S. flags. “It’s a Kentucky Fourth!”
As dusk approached, we grabbed dinner at The Village Idiot before exploring a 24-hour art exhibit at the Kentucky-based 21c Museum Hotel downtown. There, we bonded over indie music and the human-animal sculptures on display. Plus, he packed my summer reading list with queer poets and novelists, including C.P. Cavafy, Frank Bidart, Garth Greenwell, and Pajtim Statovci.
When my last day arrived, I found myself already planning my next road trip to Kentucky. Bearing a renewed sense of harmony after connecting with fellow gay guys in the state, I left for the next part of my journey. And as the rain poured down on the interstate, I cranked up the new Fleet Foxes album, Crack-Up, and wept tears of joy on the drive out of Appalachia.
