Which of these does not belong?

It began as a scheme to get free drinks. When you're 20 years old and operating sans good ID, a good scheme to get free alcohol is an enticing proposition.

Our original plan for the evening was to see the director's cut of "Donnie Darko" at the Amherst Theatre, but that all-too-important revelation that the show could possibly sell out came too late. We were left with our tried-and-true backup activity, going to the Lake Effect Diner for the best milkshakes in town. Or so we thought.

Then came the drinking scheme.

We, as three relatively attractive young men, were going to get other young men to buy us drinks at Marcella's, the gay dance club/bar downtown. We intended to make the confusion that materializes in light of male-to-male chivalry work in our favor.

"If a young man asks you a question," I told my two friends, "the only answer is, 'Buy me a drink and find out.'"

I thought I was so clever. The good times rolled as we formulated a social experiment to learn about the desires of the average gay man, as well as decide which of us the possessed the greatest amount of "play."

I planned on using my shamefully "scenester" fashion sense and rugged good looks to rack up the points. (I use the terms "rugged" and "good" loosely.) Friend one, Silas, had a unique strategy. He planned to get friendly with the bartender, leaving the masses to fight for the scraps. Friend two, Dan, threw on an uncharacteristically well-ironed shirt, and planned to use his endearing accessibility and charm.

Upon arrival, however, the plan changed drastically. Turned out, Silas "isn't" underage, and he got the wristband instead of the X's. Dan and I got X's. Silas was out to an early lead in free-drink consumption potential.

The competition dissolved completely following our entrance. Silas scored again by knowing the shirtless shot server personally. To Hell with competition, we were out to get drinks and using this acquaintance seemed the best way. It worked well enough, though shirtlessness proved not to hinder the server's ability to tell us, "You know those cost money, right?"

For those who have yet to attend Marcella's, inside the entrance is a bar-only area. Beyond that, a staircase descends into the club portion. Clearly, the bar wasn't the way to go. These guys were watching MSNBC.

For the next two hours, Silas, Dan and I strayed not from our post. We stood as still as social norms would allow. Silas had been to Marcella's once, and disliked the experience. I had been to one club in my life, and I nearly got myself arrested. Dan had never been in a "club," per say, let alone a gay one. So, we didn't want to ruffle any feathers, not to mention our moves are poor, if they are moves at all.

We were enjoying ourselves, observing the situation. There was a free-spirited atmosphere completely unlike the type produced by the crowds with which I usually cohort. I didn't have the feeling that someone wanted to hurt me, and I usually do get that feeling in crowds, whether at bars or concerts. Aside from a few catty side-glances, people seemed complacent towards our presence.

Finally, Dan had had enough with observing those who were already dance-savvy, and decided it was time to make a move. He gestured to the floor and Silas went with him, leaving me alone to guard the post.

"Here it comes," I thought. Sure enough, inside 30 seconds, a young man approached me and delivered the sort of line that makes you wonder how long it took him to conjure the introduction.

"Is this your first time here?" he asked. He was dressed in a dark green t-shirt and blue-white-black camouflage pants, the sort that makes you less visible if you happen to be falling from the sky in cloudy twilight. In my awkwardness, I gave a terse response and ended the encounter.

As the night progressed, such situations arose several more times. I handled each with progressively greater ease, falling into a conversation with a young man who gave me his card, despite our mutual unavailability.

I eventually hung up my coat and hoodie, and hit the floor. Let me tell you something. Fronting a metal band is astronomically simpler than dancing on the same floor as guys who know what they're doing. For the band, I can just shake my leg when not screaming and I'm cool. But these guys were all over the place, doing stuff I never saw at the prom. Their sex was unparalleled.

By 3 a.m., the three of us got tired of dancing with each other in a triangle. That, and, one creepy guy kept being creepy, and we were a little creeped out.

We called it a night, and hit the Lake Effect for a whole other kind of shake. Having overcome a long-time fear, we agreed it was worth doing again, and tried to figure which of our friends would be willing to get down with some dudes.