A fierce "Pineapple Express" storm was reaching its zenith as Aaron and I stepped into Stud Country, a vibrant hub for country dance enthusiasts. Shedding our raincoats, we donned white N95 masks, revealing damp t-shirts tucked into jeans and cargo pants, accented by matching cowboy boots – our usual attire for such an occasion, yet this evening held a different significance. It was a Thursday night, a school night no less, just after 8 p.m., and we had arrived at Los Globos, the venue for Stud Country’s lively country dance event, ready to embrace the rhythm. In my early twenties, these very halls resonated with the pulse of late-night techno-house DJs and the lively cadence of weekday salsa lessons; tonight, however, our focus was on mastering the beginner’s two-step.

Our recent courthouse wedding, intentionally held before any potential Supreme Court rulings on same-sex marriage could cast a shadow, necessitated a celebratory reception. We envisioned a small desert gathering in the spring, and for this, a "first dance" was essential. The two-step, with its blend of grace and connection, emerged as the perfect choice. Stud Country, renowned for its curated evenings of classic and 90s country dances set to Western and contemporary pop anthems, has become a beacon of this cultural resurgence. Its events, increasingly popular across California, proudly continue Los Angeles’s rich, half-century tradition of queer line dancing and LGBTQ+ cowboy culture, a phenomenon that has even stretched to New York City, evidenced by their merchandise proclaiming "I’m Bi for Stud Country."

As we entered, the dance floor was sparsely populated, a quiet prelude to the energy that was about to unfold. Suddenly, the distinctive twang of a dobro guitar pierced 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 venerable figure in the Los Angeles queer country scene, captivated the room with a demonstration of the two-step. Their fluid movements, marked by elegant holds and sweeping twirls, commanded attention, much like the greater sage grouse performing its mating dance. This was not merely a display of skill, but a powerful embodiment of intergenerational camaraderie.

Stud Country emerged in 2021, a timely successor to the beloved Oil Can Harry’s, a legendary gay country-western bar that had shuttered its doors. Anthony Ivancich, who graced the dance floor at Oil Can Harry’s for over five decades, witnessed firsthand the profound impact of its closure. Situated in Studio City, Oil Can Harry’s stood as one of the oldest queer establishments not only in Los Angeles but across the United States, having operated since 1968. For decades, it served as a vital sanctuary for diverse forms of expression, from the glitter of disco to the edgier aesthetics of the leather community. The bar had weathered significant historical storms, including targeted police raids on LA’s queer spaces in the late 1960s and the devastating AIDS crisis of the 1980s, during which it transformed into a crucial hub for mutual aid and community support. Despite its resilience, the COVID-19 pandemic ultimately proved insurmountable.

The building that once housed Oil Can Harry’s, a landmark alongside other significant Los Angeles LGBTQ+ historical sites like The Black Cat – a location of pivotal pre-Stonewall LGBTQ+ protests – has since been designated a historic-cultural monument by the Los Angeles Conservancy. Stud Country has stepped into the void, actively carrying forward the queer country legacy by hosting events at various venues throughout the city and, increasingly, across the nation. This model of pop-up parties has gained traction as rising rents and gentrification continue to displace LGBTQ+ bars nationwide, a pervasive issue impacting community spaces. Sean Monaghan, in a Los Angeles Times documentary, reflected on the significance of Stud Country’s mission, stating, "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."

Upstairs, during our beginner’s two-step class, Aaron, ever the confident leader, guided me through the steps. My right hand found his left, my left rested on his hip, mirroring his right hand on my shoulder. We began a slow, counterclockwise rotation around the dance floor, joined by more than twenty other pairs. The two-step, characterized by its distinct rhythm of two quick steps followed by two slow steps within a repeating six-count pattern, was our focus. "Quick, quick, slow, slow!" our instructor’s voice echoed over the music. Initially, my feet felt clumsy, struggling with the syncopation. However, by closing my eyes and focusing on the connection with Aaron, a sense of confidence began to emerge, much like the assured posture of a sage grouse. The essence of pair dancing, much like any strong relationship, hinges on trust and communication.

The two-step, a dance form rich in nuance, boasts numerous regional variations, including specific traditions within the queer community. One such adaptation is "shadow dancing," an intimate style where partners face the same direction, eliminating any perceived distance and allowing for an uninhibited connection. Our instructor emphasized that two-stepping transcended mere partner dancing; it served as a powerful catalyst for forging intergenerational bonds and strengthening community ties. "It’s a way to cross generational divides," he explained, underscoring the dance’s unifying power.

Just as Aaron and I began to find our stride, a command echoed through the room: partner switch. In an instant, I was paired with Ariella, her lips adorned with vibrant purple lipstick, followed by Bri, whose boots sparkled with dazzling embellishments, and then Jorge, sporting a stylish crop top. We practiced incorporating twirls and reverse spins into the basic step, each partner offering a unique lead. The experience of being spun by individuals of varying genders and heights, all while navigating new steps together, proved to be exhilarating and a testament to the inclusive spirit of the dance.

As the evening drew to a close, we walked back to our car, the persistent rain doing little to dampen our spirits. The rhythm of the two-step, "Quick, quick, slow, slow," continued to echo in our movements. I found myself envisioning our first dance at the desert reception, contemplating the possibility of performing the two-step to The Chicks’ iconic song, "Cowboy Take Me Away." This song, which our friend Taylor had beautifully performed on acoustic guitar at our courthouse ceremony, held profound meaning for us as a queer couple. We had blared it on countless road trips across the Southwest, traversing vast landscapes of sagebrush, witnessing the ephemeral beauty of desert blooms, and sleeping under a canopy of stars, mirroring the song’s evocative imagery.

One certainty remained: we had a significant amount of practice ahead of 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 refine our "weaves" and embrace the intimacy of "shadow dancing."

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