Queer Friends, It's Time To Tug On Some Cowboy Boots

The opening lines of Luke Bryan’s “Country Girl (Shake It for Me)” begin to filter through the speakers, and our conversation screeches to a halt. Drinks are abandoned somewhere near our pile of coats, and my girlfriend and our friends make a beeline for the dance floor. We’re ready. We’ve practiced this one.

Everyone around us is queer; many are in Western wear. The floor is packed, but everyone seems to have a place. Pros model the steps on a nearby stage. I’m sweaty, excited, and anxious: I am not an intuitive dancer. But when I mix up a step or use the wrong foot, there’s no time to dwell on my mistake — and besides, nobody in the crowd is judging me, anyway. I just focus on the next move, and I’m surprised when I fall into sync as we kick, step, clap, and turn in tandem.

My foray into line dancing had begun five months prior. A friend was becoming a regular at Stud Country, a weekly series of queer country-western line dancing events and classes founded in 2021 and held in four cities, including New York and L.A. When she invited us to join, my partner, whose family lives in Montana and whose closet contains more than one pair of cowboy boots, was immediately on board. I, on the other hand — a lifelong city girl who’s always held a bias against country music — envisioned myself sticking on the sidelines, quietly cheering everyone on.

“Typically, the things we associate with country music are Republicans, racism, homophobia, Morgan Wallen.” But eventually, she fell in love.

When I arrived at the large outdoor venue at Lincoln Center in New York, however, I was almost immediately welcomed into a two-stepping tutorial, where I partner-danced with about 20 queer people of all ages and skill levels in a way that felt not unlike speed dating. (In a way, it occasionally serves that purpose.) Everyone chose whether they wanted to lead or follow. Most notably, everyone was kind.

Queer line dancing has a rich, beautiful history of more than 50 years (as detailed in a 2024 docu-short about Stud Country), and it’s gaining popularity across the country, partly thanks to people discovering it on TikTok.

Stud Country events typically include a few lessons sprinkled throughout a dance party, where the DJ plays a mix of country and line-friendly pop songs — including, for instance, Britney Spears’ “I’m a Slave 4 U.” Attendees perform extremely cool, choreographed dances in near-perfect sync. (Many regulars learn the steps via a massive Google Drive of tutorials.)

Fast-forward to today, and I’ve come around to certain country songs. I’m in a dedicated group chat, “Line Dancing Incorporated,” to discuss upcoming events. We’ve even rented out a by-the-hour studio space so we can practice.

Rivkah Reyes, 32, was also skeptical when she began attending Stud Country events with friends in 2023. “I was never a country music listener, aside from Shania [Twain], Reba [McEntire], Faith Hill,” she says. “Typically, the things we associate with country music are Republicans, racism, homophobia, Morgan Wallen.” But eventually, she fell in love: with the choreography, the energy, and the community. Now, she’s an instructor at another line dancing series, Buck Wild in Brooklyn.

“Gabby Windey and Robby Hoffman are over here, boot-scootin’ and making out in the corner.”

“I grew up in Chicago, but over the summers, we’d go to Wyoming when I was a kid. So my family was immersed in cowboy culture, to some extent — but still, because my family’s mixed race, we’d go into town and people would look at us in a crazy way,” Reyes says. By contrast, queer line dancing makes her feel safe.

She remembers one notable night at Stud Country in Los Angeles: “Gabby Windey and Robby Hoffman are over here, boot-scootin’ and making out in the corner, and G Flip and Chrishell [Stause] are over here, also boot-scootin’ and making out. And I’m just in the middle,” she says. “[I’m thinking], ‘This is so cool — we’re all here to line dance.’”

Reyes first met her now-partner, Jess Davis, 29, through a line dancing event. They had mutual friends but were regulars at different places. When they crossed paths, Davis was awestruck by Reyes’ skill and energy on the dance floor. “As soon as [a song] would start playing, Riv would be like, ‘This is [the choreography].’ I’m still processing which song is even playing,” Davis recalls. “My head was turned. I was blown away.’” The next day, she texted a friend, “Who is that?”

Before long, they were co-hosting events like Buck & Grind, where they teach moves for their favorite ’80s and ’90s R&B songs. “[Line dance is] also very popular in the Black community; it’s very popular in the Filipino community — we decided to dedicate a whole night to this,” says Reyes. “Our hope was that people—”

“Would make out,” Davis jumps in.

“And they did,” Reyes says.

Other queer couples have met similarly. Jodi, 32, met her partner, Leanne, in late 2023 through a mutual acquaintance at her first Stud Country party in Brooklyn. Leanne, dressed in cowboy boots and a jean skirt, struck up a conversation, then offered to send Jodi a spreadsheet of line dance tutorials. “And that’s how she slid into my DMs,” Jodi says.

“I can’t help but feel like we’re kind of making history — at a time when it’s scary to be queer, it’s scary to be trans, it’s scary to be not white and not a man in America — doing this thing that is so American and making it ours.”

It’s become a shared hobby. “Oftentimes, if we’re waiting for the train or at a bar waiting for our food, she’ll be like, ‘Here, let me teach you [some steps].’ It’s become something we do anywhere and everywhere,” Jodi says.

She stopped drinking about a year and a half before attending her first Stud Country party and was struck by the fact that she didn’t see many people with alcohol. (Cups are often prohibited on the dance floor.) It was a zero-pressure space. “I loved that it just felt like everyone was really happy to be in this space, being queer, and dancing together, period,” she says.

The community’s warmth often extends beyond the activity itself — after all, it’s joyful and comforting to be surrounded by people who understand core parts of your identity. Among them, I feel not just safe but fully celebrated when I engage in light PDA with my girlfriend.

It’s also a great way to find platonic relationships. Jolie, 25, met her tight-knit group of queer friends through dancing. Now, they have a weekly burger night and hang out constantly. “I bartend, and they come visit me almost every single time I work,” she says.

Many of the dancers I spoke to agree that finding queer community and joy is particularly important right now, with LGBTQ+ rights under attack. “I can’t help but feel like we’re kind of making history — at a time when it’s scary to be queer, it’s scary to be trans, it’s scary to be not white and not a man in America — doing this thing that is so American and making it ours and taking up space in this way,” says Reyes.

In my own experience, moving in sync with very talented, very hot, and very queer people is euphoric. Or, as Davis puts it: “There’s no chance of walking into queer line dancing and not walking out a little bit gayer.”