Amidst a "pineapple express" downpour, my husband Aaron and I found ourselves entering Stud Country, a vibrant hub for country dance in Los Angeles. Slipping on our N95 masks and shedding raincoats to reveal damp t-shirts tucked into jeans and cargo pants, our cowboy boots adding a quintessential touch, we were ready for an evening of two-stepping. It was a Thursday night, a school night no less, and we were headed to Los Globos, the venue for Stud Country’s popular country dance events. My early twenties were spent exploring this historic Silver Lake neighborhood, frequenting late-night techno-house DJ sets and taking weekday salsa lessons, but tonight marked a new chapter: a beginner’s two-step class.

Our decision to embrace country dancing stemmed from a recent courthouse wedding, a proactive step taken weeks before a potentially landmark Supreme Court case that could have challenged same-sex marriage rights. While the court ultimately declined to hear the case, we were eager to celebrate our union with friends and family at a spring desert reception, and what better way to mark our first dance as a married couple than with a classic two-step?

Stud Country has carved a niche for itself by celebrating both classic and ’90s country dances, seamlessly blending Western anthems with contemporary pop hits. In recent years, its events have surged in popularity across California, continuing a half-century tradition of queer line dancing and LGBTQ+ cowboy culture within Los Angeles. This phenomenon has even reached the East Coast, with merchandise proudly proclaiming, "I’m Bi for Stud Country," underscoring the growing national appeal of this unique subculture.

As the dance floor remained largely empty, the resonant twang of a dobro guitar signaled the start of the evening. The lights dimmed, a disco ball began its mesmerizing spin, and co-founder Sean Monaghan, alongside esteemed Los Angeles queer country figure Anthony Ivancich, graced the floor with an elegant two-step demonstration. Their fluid movements, characterized by looping twirls and graceful holds, captivated the room. Much like the majestic sage grouse performing its mating ritual, their dance commanded attention, not through territorial display, but through a captivating display of intergenerational camaraderie and shared passion.

The genesis of Stud Country in 2021 was deeply intertwined with the closure of Oil Can Harry’s, a legendary gay country-western bar that had been a cornerstone of the community for decades. Anthony Ivancich, who graced the Oil Can Harry’s dance floor for over fifty years, played a pivotal role in its history. Located in Studio City, Oil Can Harry’s stood as one of the oldest queer establishments not only in Los Angeles but in the entire United States, having operated since 1968. Over the years, it served as a vital sanctuary for diverse forms of self-expression, from the disco era to the leather scene. The bar weathered significant historical challenges, including targeted police raids on queer spaces in the late 1960s and the devastating AIDS crisis of the 1980s, evolving into a hub for mutual aid and community support. However, the profound impact of the COVID-19 pandemic ultimately led to its closure.

Today, the very building that housed Oil Can Harry’s, a space that alongside venues like The Black Cat – a site of early LGBTQ+ activism predating the Stonewall Uprising – holds significant historical importance for the LGBTQ+ community in Los Angeles, is recognized as a historic-cultural monument by the Los Angeles Conservancy. Stud Country has valiantly stepped in to carry the torch of queer country culture, organizing events not just across the city but now nationwide. This rise of pop-up parties and mobile events reflects a broader trend driven by escalating rents and gentrification, forces that have sadly led to the shuttering of numerous LGBTQ+ bars across the country.

Sean Monaghan, in a poignant Los Angeles Times documentary, reflected on the significance of Stud Country’s community, 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." This sentiment underscores the profound connection between past and present, highlighting how current generations build upon the struggles and triumphs of their predecessors.

Upstairs, as the beginner’s class commenced, Aaron confidently took the lead, with me following his steps. Our hands intertwined, his resting on my hip and mine on his shoulder, we began to move counterclockwise around the dance floor, joining over twenty other couples. The two-step, characterized by its six-count rhythm, involves two quick steps followed by two slow steps. "Quick, quick, slow, slow!" our instructor’s voice echoed over the music. My feet occasionally stumbled as I grappled with the syncopated beat, but closing my eyes, I found a growing confidence, a feeling akin to the assured presence of the sage grouse. Like any strong relationship, pair dancing is fundamentally built on trust and communication.

The two-step is a dance rich in nuance, with numerous regional variations, including distinct queer traditions. One such variation is "shadow dancing," an intimate style where partners face the same direction, fostering a close connection. Our instructor emphasized that the two-step transcended mere partner dancing; it served as a powerful vehicle for bringing together individuals from different age groups, thereby strengthening community bonds. "It’s a way to cross generational divides," he explained, highlighting its unifying power.

Just as Aaron and I began to find our rhythm, the instructor called for a partner rotation. Suddenly, I was dancing with Ariella, her lips painted a vibrant purple, then with Bri, adorned in dazzling boots, and finally with Jorge, sporting a stylish crop top. Each new partner brought a unique leading style as we practiced incorporating twirls and reverse spins into the basic step. The experience of being spun by individuals of varying genders and heights, all while navigating new steps together, was both exhilarating and illuminating.

Leaving the venue in the pouring rain, we found ourselves still moving to the rhythm of the two-step, our steps naturally falling into a "quick, quick, slow, slow" cadence. I found myself dreaming of our first dance at the reception, contemplating whether we could master the two-step to The Chicks’ iconic song, "Cowboy Take Me Away." This song, beautifully performed by our friend Taylor at our courthouse ceremony, held profound meaning for us as a queer couple. We had blared it on countless road trips across the Southwest, gazing at desert blooms, traversing vast expanses of sagebrush, and sleeping under a canopy of stars, mirroring the song’s evocative imagery.

One thing was abundantly clear: we had our work cut out for us. To truly honor the spirit of the song and extend the legacy of our queer ancestors on that dusty desert dance floor, we needed to refine our technique, perhaps even "oil our weaves" and practice our shadow dancing.

This exploration of queer cowboy culture and its contemporary expressions is part of the "Confetti Westerns" column, which delves into the natural and cultural histories of the American Southwest through a queer lens.