What follows is one of the many articles in the Mercury‘s 2026 Queer Issue. Find a print copy here, subscribe to get a copy mailed to you here, and if you’re feeling generous and want to keep these types of articles coming, support us here.—eds.
Partner dancing, at least traditionally, follows a strict gender binary: who leads and who follows, who asks who to dance, and who wears lace-ups and who wears heels. But a number of queer-led organizations in Portland are keeping all the things they love about partner dancing and social dancing—the connections, the energy, the community—while breaking down the outdated gender roles and adding clear communication about consent. The result: places where people can dance and be their true, full selves. There’s never been a better time to be queer on the dance floor.
Stomptown
Country two-step, waltz, and West Coast swing, plus country line dance
Country line dance may be exploding in popularity at the moment, but Stomptown’s been at this country dancing thing for a lot longer—about 20 years, according to its current president, Zoe Frost. But while line dancing is an entry point to country dancing for many these days, Stomptown’s real bread and butter is country partner dancing.
Stomptown, a 501(c)3 nonprofit, hosts dance nights every first and second Friday at Escape Bar and Grill, a tiny lesbian-owned bar on Northeast Sandy and Prescott, with up to 100 dancers crowding the dance floor at peak times. On third Saturdays, up to 150 dancers flood the upstairs ballroom of the Central Eastside’s Norse Hall. Each night starts with a beginner-friendly lesson—usually two-step or line dancing—ending with three hours of partner and line dancing.
“We’re trying to really balance ourselves as an organization, making sure not to lose our ethos of the importance of partner dancing and the experience of being able to connect in these intimate ways on the dance floor,” says Frost. “We’re bringing in new generations who are more focused on line dancing, while also not wanting to forget our past and our community, and specifically our elders who came to this experience through partner dancing.”
Queer country partner dancing has a long history. People needed safe spaces where they could dance together without having to go to straight honky-tonks or unsafe country bars, explains Frost, and out of that, a distinct culture developed. Some dances only exist within queer spaces, like shadow dancing, in which partners hold each other close, one in front of the other, while one guides the other’s movements.
“It’s a very fun, sexy way to dance together to slower songs, and that was created by gay men in country partner dance. It’s a really sweet way to connect and be sultry,” says Frost.
Unlike straight partner dancing in which men often lead and women often follow, there are no gendered roles in queer partner dancing—anyone can lead, anyone can follow, and some do both. At Stomptown, dancers wear name tags that specify what roles they want to dance.
Many queer dance spaces, including Stomptown, also strive to create a culture of clear communication and consent that is often lacking in straight partner dance. Dancers should feel empowered to ask others to dance and to freely say yes or no to requests. For those who are just there to line dance or don’t want to be asked to dance, Stomptown offers red wristbands.
Stomptown also hosts special events. In May, the group held a garden party themed Queer Prom fundraiser. Volunteers stayed up late making boutonnières and corsages, and photographers captured the event both digitally and on film. Stomptown has performed at Rose City Rollers half-time shows—the skaters even coordinated a Western-themed derby round. Stomptown also performs yearly in the Portland Pride parade.
For Frost, one of the most rewarding parts of Stomptown is watching firsttimers try something new—and having them come back for more.
“You watch people come in a little bit like ‘deer in headlights’ when they arrive the first time, like, ‘How does everybody know how to do this?’ And then they see that they can do it too, and you just keep showing up, you put in the effort, you practice at home, you ask strangers to dance. It’s really beautiful to watch the community build and change over time.” stomptown.org, @stomptownlgbtqcountry
Landline
Country line dance
Sye Laird loves to line dance. When he was living out in the country without cell service or internet, he would go to the library and print out line dancing step sheets, studying them carefully until he could perform them seamlessly on the dance floor.
Like lots of longtime country dancers, Laird got into country line dancing after originally starting out with partner dancing. In fact, Laird is also an attendee of Stomptown events, teaching line dancing classes for them. But living outside Vernonia, he wanted to create a series of country dance events that complemented rather than duplicated Stomptown’s Portland-based, partner dance-focused offerings.
In January 2025, Laird founded Landline, starting off as a series of line dance classes at the Vernonia Grange. By April, Landline had grown to offer weekly line dance lessons at Dance with Joy Studios in Southeast Portland, with each week tailored to a different skill level, from beginners to improvers, intermediate to advanced. Landline also continues to offer line dancing lessons and social dancing at the Vernonia Grange around once a month. Now, car fulls of Portlanders will drive out to the Vernonia Grange for some true country dancing.
“A lot of queer people come from rural places and have had to leave those rural places, and so I think there’s a real healing process that comes from redefining how they want to interact with country dancing and rural spaces,” says Laird. “As someone who lives rurally, I find it really important to try to create a safe space in a rural environment where queer people can explore that connection, whether they came from rural places or not.”
When Laird first started Landline, the classes were made up entirely of friends he met through the dance community. Now there are fresh faces every week.
“I’m providing the logistics and the structure, but everyone else is really doing the work to connect by showing up,” says Laird. “It’s really fun to see people that you know come alone and make friends and start to be involved in the community. I think there are even people who’ve met their partners in class.” @landline_dance
Queer Baile
Salsa, bachata, cumbia, and merengue
For co-organizer Sarah Arias, Queer Baile couldn’t have come into her life at a better time.
“I had just gotten a new position at work, and I was going through a breakup in early 2023. Doc Marie’s had just posted something they were hosting called Sapphic Salsa, and I was like, ‘I need to get out of my lonely studio apartment,’” Arias recalls. “I thought it was super fun, because I’m using my body, I work a desk job. I’m in the comfort of being at a lesbian bar, so it’s full of the fellow girlies up in there.”
Soon, Sapphic Salsa, as it was originally called when it was founded in 2019, had become a regular part of her life. “I had so much fun the first time, I just went back the next Wednesday, and then the next Wednesday,” Arias says. There, she became close with the friends, all queer and Latiné, that she now co-leads Queer Baile with: Anna Schneider, Kylie Davis, Sophia Bermudez-Eredia, and Karen Ceballos.
Queer Baile was once a small weekly gathering of around 20 people in the basement of now-closed lesbian bar Doc Marie’s; now, the events, held on the fourth Wednesday of each month, often draw over 100 dancers of all identities to the patio of White Owl Social Club. Though the event focused on salsa in its early years, offerings have expanded to include bachata, as well as dances that are taught much less frequently in dance schools in the United States: traditional Dominican bachata, cumbia and cumbia norteña, and merengue. The first hour is dedicated to a group lesson. No partner necessary, and anyone can choose to lead or follow. Then, DJ Mala takes the floor for the next two hours, playing bachata, salsa, cumbia, merengue, and reggaeton.
For Arias, her co-organizers, and many attendees, Queer Baile provided a safe, joyful space that was missing in their lives in Portland.
“What really holds a lot of weight for me is the celebration of that intersectionality that is being queer and also being of Latin descent,” says Arias. “I’m originally from California, so almost 90 percent, if not everybody [in my community] was Black and brown. I moved to Portland, I fell in love with the city… but the downside is that it’s just not anything like where I grew up in LA,” she says. “Even if I did find those Latin spaces, it’s not specifically for [people who identify] with the alphabet gang.”
Arias emphasizes that Queer Baile focuses more on learning the basics, having fun, and connecting with others, rather than on complicated turns and footwork. “We’re trying to make it fun, casual, and comfortable,” says Arias. “We try to sneak some humor into lessons and give pop culture references.”
During a Heated Rivalry-themed bachata event, organizers and attendees alike showed up in hockey gear, with Shane and Ilia references sprinkled throughout the choreo. Guests were asked to dress up in their ‘Holi-Gay” best for December’s dance, whose flyer featured a twerking Grinch. For Valentine’s Day, Queer Baile sold handmade cards and matchbooks decorated with phrases like “I’m T4T; Dance With Me?” and “Cumbia With Me?,” raising over $500 for Portland Immigrant Rights Coalition. For the last couple years, Queer Baile has also hosted a Pedalpalooza bike ride, kicking off with an outdoor dance lesson and stopping at multiple points for dance parties, culminating in a DJ set along the Eastbank Esplanade. This year’s ride will likely take place in July; check Queer Baile’s Instagram page for updates.
Speaking of Valentines, a couple who originally met at Queer Baile just got married last fall.
“This is really for the community, by the community,” says Arias. “We have all developed such beautiful friendships and connections with people through this class.” @queerbailepdx