As a torrential "pineapple express" storm lashed the region, my husband, Aaron, and I stepped into Stud Country, a vibrant hub for country dance enthusiasts. Inside, we donned our N95 masks, shedding raincoats to reveal moisture-kissed T-shirts tucked into jeans and cargo pants, cinched with belts that perfectly matched our cowboy boots. This was our customary attire for such an outing, yet tonight’s routine was anything but usual. It was a Thursday evening, well past 8 p.m. on a school night, and we had arrived at Los Globos, the venue for Stud Country’s popular country dance event, ready to learn. In my early twenties, this very club in Los Angeles’s historic Silver Lake neighborhood was a frequent haunt, filled with late-night techno-house DJ sets and weekday salsa lessons. Tonight, however, our mission was a beginner’s two-step class.

Our decision to learn the two-step was deeply personal, rooted in recent life events. Weeks prior, Aaron and I had exchanged vows at a courthouse, a preemptive measure taken before the Supreme Court could potentially revisit and overturn same-sex marriage protections. Fortunately, in a rare moment of legal reprieve, the court ultimately declined to hear such a case, marking a significant victory for marriage equality advocates. We were planning a small desert reception in the spring to celebrate our union with family and friends, and for this occasion, we envisioned a memorable "first dance." What better way to prepare than by mastering the two-step?

Stud Country has carved out a significant niche for itself by specializing in classic and 1990s country dances, set to both traditional Western tunes and contemporary pop hits. In recent years, its events have surged in popularity across California, extending a tradition of queer line dancing and LGBTQ+ cowboy culture that has flourished in Los Angeles for half a century. This phenomenon has even expanded to the East Coast, with merchandise like muscle tees boldly proclaiming, "I’m Bi for Stud Country" hinting at its growing appeal.

The dance floor was sparsely populated as we entered. Then, the resonant twang of a dobro guitar filled the air, the lights dimmed, and a disco ball began its mesmerizing spin. Sean Monaghan, a co-founder of Stud Country, and Anthony Ivancich, a revered figure in the Los Angeles queer country scene, took to the floor, captivating the room with a demonstration of the two-step. Their embrace was one of fluid twirls and graceful holds, an intergenerational display of camaraderie that commanded the attention of the space, much like the striking mating dance of the greater sage grouse.

The genesis of Stud Country in 2021 occurred shortly after the closure of Oil Can Harry’s, an iconic gay country-western bar. Anthony Ivancich, a fixture at Oil Can Harry’s, had graced its dance floor for over five decades. Located in Studio City, Oil Can Harry’s stood as one of the oldest queer bars not only in the Los Angeles area but across the United States, having operated since 1968. Throughout its history, it served as a sanctuary for diverse forms of self-expression, from the disco era to leather subcultures. The venue weathered significant challenges, including targeted police raids on Los Angeles’s queer spaces in the late 1960s and the devastating AIDS crisis of the 1980s, during which it transformed into a vital hub for mutual aid and community support. Ultimately, however, it succumbed to the economic pressures exacerbated by the COVID-19 pandemic.

Today, the building that once housed Oil Can Harry’s, alongside other historically significant LGBTQ+ sites in Los Angeles like The Black Cat – a venue that hosted some of the nation’s earliest LGBTQ+ protests even before the Stonewall Uprising – is recognized as a historic-cultural monument by the Los Angeles Conservancy. Stud Country has enthusiastically embraced the mantle of queer country culture, organizing events at various venues throughout the city and now expanding its reach nationwide. This shift towards pop-up parties has become increasingly prevalent as rising rents and gentrification continue to force the closure of LGBTQ+ bars across the country, a trend that threatens community spaces nationwide.

Sean Monaghan, in a poignant documentary produced by the Los Angeles Times, reflected on the significance of Stud Country’s mission: "Remembering that the elders that come to Stud Country now literally got arrested for trying to create this culture is remarkable. They laid the foundation for what we do now." This sentiment underscores the deep historical roots and ongoing legacy that Stud Country strives to honor and perpetuate.

Upstairs, during the class, Aaron confidently led, and I followed his lead. Our hands found each other – my right in his left, my left resting on his hip, his right on my shoulder. We began a slow, counterclockwise rotation around the dance floor, joining over twenty other pairs. The two-step, characterized by its distinct rhythm, involves two quick steps followed by two slow steps, adhering to a repeating six-count pattern. Our instructor’s voice boomed over the music, "Quick, quick, slow, slow!" My feet initially tangled as I grappled with the unconventional rhythm, but with closed eyes, a sense of confidence began to emerge, mirroring the assured presence of the sage grouse. Like any strong relationship, partner dancing is fundamentally built on trust.

The two-step, a dance form rich in nuance and local variations, also embraces unique queer traditions, including a style known as "shadow dancing." In this intimate variation, partners face the same direction, eschewing traditional ballroom etiquette for a more fluid and personal connection. Our instructor emphasized that the two-step transcended mere partner dancing; it served as a powerful catalyst for intergenerational connection, fostering stronger bonds within the community. "It’s a way to cross generational divides," he explained, highlighting its role as a social bridge.

Just as Aaron and I began to find our rhythm and move with a sense of effortless grace, our instructor called for a partner rotation. Suddenly, I was paired with Ariella, her lips painted a vibrant purple, then with Bri, whose boots sparkled with intricate embellishments, and subsequently with Jorge, sporting a stylish crop top. We practiced incorporating twirls and reverse spins into the basic steps, each partner leading with their distinct style. The experience of being spun by individuals of varying genders and heights was exhilarating, as we navigated the new steps together, a collective exploration of movement and connection.

As we departed, walking back to our car amidst the continuing downpour, the rhythm of the two-step seemed to linger in our steps. Quick, quick, slow, slow. I found myself envisioning our first dance at the reception, contemplating whether the two-step would suit The Chicks’ iconic song, "Cowboy Take Me Away." Our friend Taylor had beautifully performed this very song on acoustic guitar at our courthouse ceremony, bringing tears to many eyes. For Aaron and me, two queer cowboys at heart, the song resonated deeply, having been the soundtrack to our road trips across the Southwest, where we marveled at desert blooms, traversed seas of sagebrush, and slept under vast, starlit skies, just as the lyrics so eloquently described.

One thing was undeniably clear: we had our work cut out for us. To truly do justice to the song and honor the legacy of our queer ancestors on that dusty desert dance floor, we needed to polish our moves and embrace the spirit of shadow dancing.

Confetti Westerns is a column dedicated to exploring the queer natural and cultural histories of the American Southwest.

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This article was originally published in the February 2026 print edition of the magazine under the headline "Shadow dancing."

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