Ride 'em cowboys! Straight writer Steve Wilson follows the trail to the ever-gay great plains Rodeo.

"You're not gay, are you?" asked the cowboy in the Oak Room Lounge at the Oklahoma City Holiday Inn.

"No " I admitted.

"Well. I'll flirt with you anyway."

Relief. of a sort washed over me. Disheveled, scrawny, and straight, I'd been feeling triply alienated at the opening-night party of the Oklahoma Gay Rodeo Association's (OGRA) 18th Annual Great Plains Rodeo. held every May. The celebrants had outdone me not only in fashion and grooming (as I expected) but manliness as well. It was as if Garth Brooks had entered the Matrix duplicated himself a hundred times over and then come out of the closet.

Beefy men wearing tight Wranglers. crisp western shirts, identical white cowboy hats, and immaculate goatees carried on like they'd just gotten out of gay finishing school. These cowboys flirted shamelessly, greeting each other with phrases like "Bitch! There you are!" and making liberal use of the free condom bowl by the bar.

Back in the lounge, Gaither Pennington. president of the Atlantic States Gay Rodeo Association. explained the appeal of gay rodeos. "They're fun." he said as he eyed a pair of denim-clad asses in front of us. "And there's a lot of nice scenery."

Then he got philosophical, explaining how gay rodeos are one of the few ways for gay men in rural areas to meet other gay folks. Is that why the fellows here were letting loose with such ... gusto? Maybe. but Pennington had a simpler reason: "Some gay guys don't like country and western but t can't see any guys not liking cowboys."

I chuckled nervously.

As the party moved to Ballroom D down the hall, I soon got my fill of Jell-O shots and began feeling inadequately catty about the drag queens lip-synching to Patsy Kline onstage. I followed the example of the few lesbians present and returned to my room before the party moved to a oar c ailed the Cabana. I wanted acceptance, but not that badly.

A collection of plastic bucket seats and livestock chutes circling a pit of mud, Horse Barn Number 6 at the Oklahoma State Fairgrounds could have been any rodeo arena. For that matter, the competition held there the next morning could have been any rodeo, albeit one sponsored by "Elbow Grease Personal Lubricants." The cowboys and cowgirls wrestled, roped, and rode steer with all the grit, bravery, violence, and caw slobber you'd expect from such endeavors. If it hadn't been for the rainbow-stickered pickups blasting dance music in the parking lot. might have thought, was in the wrong place.

By the time of the Grand Entry at noon, it was clear this was no straight man's--or woman's--rodeo.

The steady stream of club hits on the sound system went silent as OGRA vice president Randy Rodgers and a pair of drag queens carried an American flag to the center of the arena. They stood there solemnly as the speakers blared "Proud to Be an American." More drag queens took the pit with members of the various participating gay rodeo organizations and paraded around to the theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Rodgers then took the mic far a warbly version of both "The Star-Spangled Banner" and "0 Canada. When Rodgers finished, the gravelly-voiced announcer commended the singer for his "hot little number,"

I quickly began to appreciate now expertly the announcer weaved sassy lines like that into his commentary. When the Grand Entry wrapped up, he declared "I have smut on everybody and will be telling you tales as the afternoon progresses." He didn't actually share any dirt. but he did get in some good digs, calling a man who wore a tiara of pink fringe around his hat "Johnny Tinkerbell" and chiding a drag Queen who'd fallen down with "Those high heels are a bitch in the mud, aren't they?"

The queerness in the air seemed to escalate along with the violence and skill level of afternoon events such as bronco riding and steer roping on horseback. One rider threw what could only be termed a hissy fit when he picked himself up and realized that the mount that had thrown him had also trampled his hat for good measure. Another would-be bronco buster, who had scrambled back to safety after his ride bucked in the chute, saved face by giving the delighted audience an elaborate curtsy and bow that would have been the envy of any Busby Berkeley dancer.

Meanwhile, the predominantly male audience members mostly behaved themselves, though their shouts of encouragement tended toward the "Way to go, you big nelly girl!" variety. A man in my row gave two junior high girls seated between us a lecture on the cultural history of Daisy Duke short-shorts then flirted with an arena crew worker standing nearby.

Given the general tea dance atmosphere, the actual camp events almost felt like overkill. The crowd only mustered moderate enthusiasm for the "Goat Dressing," in which two people raced to fit a pair of briefs onto a very confused goat. and the "Steer Deco." a similar chase to tie a red ribbon on a cow's tail. The "Wild Drag Race." which involved a drag queen trying to get on a steer and ride it across a finish line. drew a much more enthusiastic response.

Rob, a friendly corn-fed Kansan sitting next to me, didn't snare in the revelry. "The real rodeo stuff is much more empowering," he complained. "But my boyfriend says the camp stuff is a way to include everybody in the community."

Rob's boyfriend sat next to him but refused to join our conversation or even look my way. Jealous? And if so. did that mean Rob was flirting? Just in case. I tried to give Rob a hint, telling him that I was here as a journalist.

"That makes sense." Rob said "You don't look like the rodeo type."

STEVE WILSON, a freelance writer based in Austin, Tex., has always wanted to visit a rodeo, gay or straight ("Ride 'Em Cowboys," page 50). His work has appeared in The New York Times, Newsweek, Entertainment Weekly, and Smithsonian Magazine. He is coauthor of a biography of Paul Lynde, due out from Advocate Books/Alyson Publications in fall 2004.