Ask Marlowe: Punch, Punch, Punch-Drunk Love

The streets are crawling with longing, perversion and secrets no sane man would say out loud. But you said them. And now Marlowe’s listening to the lovelorn and the lonely. God help you.

1. “My Girlfriend Moans the Names of Defunct Soviet Satellites”

Dear Marlowe, Every time we get intimate, my girlfriend starts moaning the names of dead Soviet satellites: Sputnik, Kosmos-954, Luna  3, Zond 6 … . It started as a quirky joke — she’s an aerospace historian — but now she can’t finish unless she’s screamed “Beyond the zero!” like a war widow at a missile parade.

I’m trying not to take it personally, but I feel like I’m just background noise for Cold War erotica.

Should I be concerned ... or just start dressing like a cosmonaut? — T. Slothrop

Marlowe replies: Comrade, when your girl’s climax sounds like a museum audio guide to orbital decay, it’s time to launch a counteroffensive. You’re not in a relationship — you’re part of a state-sponsored space simulation. Sleep with one eye open and both feet on Earth. You might also want to read up on Poisson distribution.

2. “My Lover Won’t Stop Proposing … to Inanimate Objects”

Dear Marlowe, My partner is romantic, no doubt. Grand gestures, surprise picnics, all that. But lately he’s taken to proposing — not to me, mind you — but to objects.

The blender. My car. A commemorative statue of Alf at the local flea market. He gets down on one knee, opens a ring box and whispers things like, “You complete me, Hamilton Beach!”

I asked him why. He said “it’s just practice ... for someone special.”

Is that someone me? Or the microwave?

— Third in Line

Marlowe replies: He’s got one foot in love and the other in a padded cell. If you’re not the first appliance in his heart, you’re just another outlet. Get out now. Or you’re going to wake up late one morning to an empty bed and an empty space on the nightstand where the alarm clock used to be.

3. “My FWB Thinks He’s a Succubus”

Dear Marlowe, I’ve been sleeping with this guy — tall, gorgeous, freakishly flexible. Only catch: he insists he’s a succubus. Not a succubus. The Succubus.

He claims he draws power from my “astral essence,” and after every hookup he eats six grapes and writes my name backwards in chalk.

I haven’t felt this drained since jury duty. But the sex? Unbelievable. I mean, levitation-level stuff!!!

Am I being used by a delusional man, or is this just what dating looks like now? — Soulfully Sore

Marlowe replies: Whether he’s a sex demon or just really committed to theatre camp, one thing’s clear: he’s feeding off something, and it ain’t just the grapes. Keep a garlic wreath by the bed and share a safe word that isn’t in Latin. Or Romanian.

4. “My Husband Left Me for a Jigsaw Puzzle”

Dear Marlowe, My husband started doing puzzles during the COVID lockdown. Fine. Harmless. But one day he opened a 5,000-piece landscape of a Bavarian meadow … and something changed.

He says her name is Ilsa. He talks to her. Sleeps next to her on the table. Cancelled our anniversary dinner to “find the final edge piece of her soul.”

He’s emotionally unavailable, but very available for cheap cardboard. Is this cheating, or just a midlife crisis with weird, jagged shapes?

— Puzzled and Clueless

Marlowe replies: You’re married to a man who gets turned on by interlocking cardboard. That’s not a hobby — that’s a slow-motion psychotic break with a gentle pastoral backdrop. Either light the puzzle on fire or tell him Ilsa’s seeing other solvers. Regardless, you need to focus on your own inner piece.

5. “My Boyfriend Thinks I’m the Reincarnation of His Childhood Blanket”

Dear Marlowe, My boyfriend has been getting more spiritual lately. Last week, after an intense breathwork session, he looked at me with tears in his eyes and said:

“You’re Snuggie. I just knew it!”

Snuggie, I learned, was his childhood security blanket. He believes I carry the spirit of its softness, scent and “woven comfort.” He’s been cuddling me like a swaddled infant and whispering, “Oh, how I missed you.”

On one hand, he’s more affectionate than ever. On the other hand … I’m being treated like sentient flannel.

Is this romantic devotion or fabric-based delusion? — Pilled and Confused

Marlowe replies: This one’s soft, sweetheart. Real soft. Like wool after a rinse in madness.

He’s not in love with you — he’s in love with the comfort you remind him of. That’s not romance. That’s nostalgia in a onesie.

If you want to spend your nights being mistaken for polyester emotional support, go ahead. But don’t be surprised when he tries to throw you in the dryer with a lavender sachet and says it’s “foreplay.”

Marlowe never sleeps — he just smokes until the sun comes up. For questions of the heart, libido, or human behaviour so deranged it borders on federal offence, write to: Ask Marlowe c/o The Evening Telegram 3125 Soot Alley Los Diablos, CA 90909 or wire him directly via bar tab at Grumpys, 1242 rue Bishop