I'm a wimpster.

First of all, let's get the quibble about spelling out of the way. On Black Table, where the article first appeared, it's "whimpster". In Bust, where it was recently reprinted, it's become "wimpster". I'm going with "wimpster" because that "h" makes no sense. Besides, I think I should have right to spell it how I want, being one and all. I mean, I'm a guy who reads Bust. And I worry it's too establishment. I prefer Bitch, because it doesn't waste as much space on makeup.

Yeah, I'm a wimpster. Manipulative, passive-aggressive, "emo". I display all of the warning signs. I have even said, and I quote, "I never ask girls out because I don't want to sound like some sexist asshole." And I meant it.

And not to lay blame here, but let's try to get to the root of exactly where my ilk come from. I submit that our reflexive crippling PC-ness is in fact borne of a positive intent. I'm hip to the whole feminism thing, and I think I can be reasonably certain that I follow most of the major arguments, even when I run into words like "reify".

Being probably more than a little neurotic, I and people like me read about the systematic and often unconscious oppression of women and minorities and we're shocked. This can't be us. We're not bad guys. So we try our damnedest to cleanse our thoughts and actions of suspect behavior. Like the whole slut/stud double standard, which probably winds up being the crux of our problem.

See, one thing I think we wimpsters have going for us is that we're open to the possibility of having friends, pals, chums of the opposite sex without reading too much into it. The danger comes when it becomes apparent that it would be really fucking swell if there were some way to read a little bit more into it. The "Ducky Scenario", if you will. We won't say anything, because it will corrupt a completely worthwhile friendship. Put it this way: We're your passive-aggressive non-boyfriend. It starts out with a lotta beers, lotta laughs, lotta mixtapery. No pressure, no interest.

Then pow the male hormones kick in and we realize you're not only one of the guys, you're uh, totally, uh, hot. And stuff.

This is where things start to get unstable. Basically the goal is to determine if you're interested in having sexual intercourse with us ("like us like us") in a way that wouldn't jeopardize our friendship if it turned out you don't. Admit it: having one of your friends walk up to you one day and make the kind of confession that typically only figures in bad romance novels and the lives of middle schoolers is reasonably traumatic. So we don't do anything. We try to suss out, based on your throwaway comments about popular culture and local architecture, what you might be thinking.

Once something finally does happen, because we've nurtured this atmosphere of ambiguity around the whole thing, we can't actually figure out why you're doing it with us (NB: All American men in their mid-20s invariably think to themselves, "whoa. I'm totally doing it right now" in a Butt-head voice during sex). So we keep up with the noncommital "friend" act while you get bored and cheesed off with the whole sordid affair. The sex remains rote and PC for the duration because we're still operating from the premise that if we fuck up once, it's off.

So here's my invincible cure-all solution. I've examined it and it's devoid of double-standard, completely germane to use by either side of both heterosexual and homosexual platonic standoffs. If the first party entertains or suspects they might entertain sexual designs on the second party, heretofore a friend, the first party shall forthwith enquire of the second whether or not the second party would be interested in screwing, often. If the second party is indeed interested, what happens next is no business of mine. If not, however, and this is where the important part comes in, the second party must, after declining, agree to completely forget the preceding exchange and the five minutes of stammering that preceded it. You will note that this arrangement has a lot in common with what happens if you get really fucking drunk hanging out with someone you have a crush on, only the blackout part is mutual and by fiat, and ideally nobody will tell you what you did the next day.