The rhythmic pulse of a "Pineapple Express" storm mirrored the anticipation as my husband, Aaron, and I stepped into the vibrant atmosphere of Stud Country. Donning our white N95 masks and shedding raincoats that revealed damp T-shirts tucked into jeans and cargo pants, our matching cowboy boots and belts completed our customary attire for an evening of country dancing at Los Globos, the venue hosting Stud Country’s weekly event. This particular Thursday night, however, was a departure from our usual routine; instead of late-night techno-house sets or weekday salsa lessons at this historic Silver Lake club, we were embarking on a beginner’s two-step class.

Our recent courthouse wedding, a proactive step taken before potential shifts in Supreme Court rulings on same-sex marriage, was soon to be followed by a small desert reception. To ensure a graceful "first dance" for our celebration, the two-step seemed the perfect choice, offering a blend of tradition and fun. Stud Country, renowned for its energetic parties featuring classic and 90s country dance moves set to Western and contemporary pop hits, has become a significant hub for a tradition stretching back half a century in Los Angeles: queer line dancing and LGBTQ+ cowboy culture. This phenomenon has even extended to the East Coast, with merchandise like muscle tees proclaiming "I’m Bi for Stud Country" becoming popular.

As the dance floor remained largely empty, the distinctive twang of a dobro guitar announced the start of the evening’s entertainment. The lights dimmed, a disco ball began its mesmerizing spin, and co-founder Sean Monaghan, alongside Los Angeles queer country luminary Anthony Ivancich, captivated the audience with a demonstration of the two-step. Their fluid movements, characterized by looping twirls and elegant holds, drew immediate attention, evoking the striking courtship displays of the greater sage grouse, but here, the dance floor served as a stage for intergenerational camaraderie rather than a natural lek.

Stud Country emerged in 2021, a successor to the legacy of Oil Can Harry’s, a legendary gay country-western bar that shuttered its doors. Anthony Ivancich, a fixture at Oil Can Harry’s for over five decades, found a new home for this burgeoning community at Stud Country. Oil Can Harry’s, located in Studio City, stood as one of the oldest queer establishments not only in the greater Los Angeles area but also in the United States, having operated since 1968. Over the years, it served as a sanctuary for diverse forms of self-expression, from the disco era to leather subcultures. The venue navigated significant historical challenges, including targeted police raids on Los Angeles 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, the COVID-19 pandemic proved to be an insurmountable obstacle.

The building that once housed Oil Can Harry’s, a site of historical significance alongside other vital Los Angeles LGBTQ+ landmarks like The Black Cat – which hosted some of the earliest LGBTQ+ protests in the United States, predating the Stonewall Uprising – is now recognized as a historic-cultural monument by the Los Angeles Conservancy. Stud Country has embraced the mantle of queer country, organizing events across Los Angeles and increasingly nationwide. This shift towards pop-up events has become a common strategy as rising rents and gentrification continue to force the closure of LGBTQ+ bars across the country, a trend impacting community spaces and cultural preservation efforts.

Sean Monaghan, in a poignant documentary by the Los Angeles Times, reflected on the significance of Stud Country’s audience, noting, "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 the ongoing struggle for LGBTQ+ visibility and community spaces.

Upstairs, during the beginner’s class, Aaron led while I followed, our hands clasped and resting on each other’s hips and shoulders as we moved counterclockwise around the dance floor with more than twenty other couples. The two-step, a dance characterized by a repeating six-count pattern of two quick steps followed by two slow steps, proved an engaging challenge. "Quick, quick, slow, slow!" our instructor’s voice boomed over the music, guiding us through the rhythm. Though my feet occasionally tangled, closing my eyes allowed me to find a confident stride, mirroring the resilience of the sage grouse. Like any strong partnership, the dance emphasized trust and communication.

The two-step, a dance form with numerous regional variations, also incorporates unique queer traditions, such as "shadow dancing," an intimate style where partners face the same direction, fostering a close connection. Our instructor highlighted that two-stepping transcends mere partner dancing; it serves as a powerful tool for bridging generational divides and strengthening community bonds, remarking, "It’s a way to cross generational divides."

Just as Aaron and I began to find our rhythm, the instructor announced a partner rotation. In rapid succession, I found myself dancing with Ariella, adorned in purple lipstick, then Bri with her dazzling boots, and finally Jorge in his crop top, all while practicing integrating spins and reverse turns into the basic steps. Each partner offered a distinct leading style, and the experience of being guided by individuals of varying genders and heights as we navigated the new steps together was both fun and illuminating.

As we walked back to our car through the downpour, the beat of the two-step lingered in our steps. Quick, quick, slow, slow. I envisioned our first dance at the reception, contemplating if The Chicks’ "Cowboy Take Me Away," the song our friend Taylor had performed at our courthouse ceremony, would lend itself to a two-step. This song held particular resonance for us as a queer couple; we had played it on countless road trips across the Southwest, a soundtrack to our explorations of desert blooms, vast sagebrush plains, and nights spent under star-filled skies, echoing the song’s evocative lyrics.

One thing was certain: we had our work cut out for us. To do the song justice and honor the legacy of our queer ancestors on that dusty desert dance floor, we needed to refine our technique, perhaps even incorporating elements of shadow dancing, and truly embody the spirit of the music.

This article is part of "Confetti Westerns," a column exploring the queer natural and cultural histories of the American Southwest.