FIRST?

The few, the brave, the body-glitter encrusted. Those Harvard students willing to break with the norm, eschew the banality of the Square and place their lives in the hands of Boston city cab drivers are few and far between. This week, FM sends one brave writer on a mission into Boston, to the sketchiest of all dance clubs, the notorious "Who's on First." This is her story.

We approach the bouncer and suddenly I'm unsure of myself, my heart starts pumping a bit faster, and my fingers can't extricate my driver's license. A familiar fear washes over me, and it takes a few seconds to calm down and remember that the birthday I celebrated over intersession was The One, the day I got 10 percent off at the Pro, the day I turned 21. I'm golden.

Only two steps into the club, the music blasts loud and inescapable. I realize that the rhythmic pumping is not only guiding the scores of underage B.C. students on the dance floor but forcing my heart into the same chaotic pulse. Twenty minutes and two beers later, it becomes apparent that the cadence has extended its pull to include my entire body, which wanders into the middle of a cluster of sweaty dancers and begins gyrating. My companions join me and before long we are propositioned by a flock of sweaty men. Apparently, one member of the herd is celebrating his 21st birthday, and his buddies think one of us lucky girls should surprise him with a kiss. They are MIT men, after all, so we should feel flattered. One also claims to have seen one of us in a Harvard economics class that he is taking and sees this as some sort of bargaining chip in the deal. I promise him that if it weren't for my very jealous boyfriend, I'd be more than happy to lay a smooch on his inebriated friend, and my friends follow my lead. (Note to any available men reading this: I have neither a very jealous boyfriend nor any kind of boyfriend at all. My number's in the book.) The herd eventually migrates toward a group of more promising prospects, and we manage to escape to a less crowded corner. As the volume of the music completely inhibits conversation, I am alone with my thoughts and begin questioning my expectations of the place. My single foray into Boston my freshman year had been to this very establishment and I had found it rather exciting that night. For two years I had carefully plotted out my return, planning to party in Boston every weekend "once I turn 21." Now that a month has passed since that grand day, I do not find myself reveling in the pleasures of my newfound legality, but griping about loud music, extreme heat and the plethora of underage men and over-made up women. Now that my roommates and I have finally escaped the confines of Cambridge to explore the hopping nightlife of the city across the river, I find myself longing to return to the familiarity of the Square establishments or the solitude of our room. Damn, I'm old.

Two of my companions return from the rest room in giggles. The swarm of MIT men struck again, and this time one of my friends had offered her number, except, "I gave him yours, Alicia." Sweet. I decide that this is my cue to leave. We exit. On the cab ride home, my fellow adventurers and I come to the consensus that the club owners must have favored the old baseball analogy for hooking up: To be on first implies the possibility of scoring. When my phone rings at 6:05 a.m., and caller ID busts the sketch MIT guy, I'm glad it's not me.