It’s country night at Boycott Bar. The songs are bringing me back to my middle school country obsession and I catch myself singing along more than once. There is even line dancing led by a smiling Dyke in metallic cowboy boots and an open flannel. Boots click and clomp in unison, punctuated by rhythmic clapping and laughter.

I’m greeted at the door by a bouncer with a top knot and shaved sides who compliments my cactus shirt and genuinely thanks me for stopping by. There is not much in the way of seating, most cleared away for dancing or taken up by groups of laughing queers. I spend the first part of my evening writing leaning against the bar. 

There is not an insignificant number of older Dykes with gray buzzes and collared shirts. The rest of the crowd is in their 20s and 30s, mostly wearing jeans, cut-offs, tanks, and tees. Arizona casual, cute but dressed for a cool of 80°, even at 9 pm. The demographic is mostly white and overwhelmingly Dyke, across gender and presentation. 

The bartender is wearing a Boycott tee shirt and dark jeans, with a high ponytail, full beat, and impeccable nails. The bar is sparsely populated for a Friday night, but the crowd is enthusiastic and ready to join in on the dancing. 

Cowboy boots fly and dance across the floor, kicking and spinning. Some songs get line dances, others open up to two-stepping. Metallic-boots dances for the pure joy of it, even when no one else joins in. Two elder Dykes dance together most of the night, holding each other close and moving in unison. 

A gay male couple in matching boots and silk shirts spin around the dance floor. They are not constrained by the mortal rules of gravity. They dance like they do this every day, adding in spins and flairs without a second thought. After a series of truly impressive spins, I counted at least 5 in a row, they laugh and dance back to their chairs. Anytime I watch truly great dancers, I am always inspired to try to learn to dance again, only to remember that my college dance teacher once spent half the semester proclaiming how “improved” I was.

Couples pair off to dance, switching partners nearly every song. One of the elder Dyke leads a dance captain in a measured turn around the floor and one of the gay guys is led by a cute Dyke with a stylish haircut, spinning them both around the floor to the beat. 

Almost everyone on the dance floor seems to have at least a beginner’s grasp on what they’re doing. Three or four are nearly at professional levels, leading their partners with firm grace. The more proficient Dykes try out new choreography and tricks involving twists and spins, cheering when they get it right. 

The space itself is black brick and hot pink walls; the bar top is sparkly black tile and wood paneling. High tops are pushed to the edges of the concrete dance floor and a DJ booth is tucked into a corner. The tables are lacquered over with photos of Boycott’s past. A few strategically placed black and white photos of Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe serve as the primary decor.

The space itself is black brick and hot pink walls; the bar top is sparkly black tile and wood paneling. High tops are pushed to the edges of the concrete dance floor and a DJ booth is tucked into a corner. The tables are lacquered over with photos of Boycott’s past. A few strategically placed black and white photos of Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe serve as the primary decor. 

There is a quiet second room with an open wall and ashtrays, clearly used mostly for storage. A pool table takes up most of the space, and there is also a dart board and an N-64 setup with Ms. Pac-Man. 

Like many of the bars I’ve been to recently, there is a strong butch presence, wearing tees and backwards caps with squared shoulders and easy confidence. There are few of the androgynous Gen Z queers to whom I am accustomed. A few trans folks are mingling in and out. Again, I am surprised by the men’s and women’s restrooms.

I don’t get the impression that everyone here knows everyone else, but there are groups of familiarity and a sense of ease with everyone here. Strangers ask to dance and groups mingle easily. 

Metallic-boots teaches a cute redhead in platform sneakers some simple steps, leading them around the dance floor with a gentle smile. There is a slight feeling of being at a middle school dance, with the more introverted folks hanging out at the edges psyching themselves up and waiting to be asked to dance. 

A handful of top 40 songs make it into the mix that almost nobody dances to, but when the country comes on, at least six different couples take to the stage. They spin in circles around the room, a kaleidoscope of boots and smiles. People don’t hesitate to ask others to dance, and the red-headed queer gets led by all the best dancers in the room.

This is the kind of place I picture whenever someone asks me if I want to go out dancing and the only kind of dancing I’m truly excited about. There is a certain energy and camaraderie to partner dancing, and Boycott fits into that space beautifully. Dancing should be just as much about watching other people move together as it is about dancing yourself, and I had a feast to behold at Boycott.

Cowboy Boots: 7

Phoenix, AZ