Both Bride and Groom has never seen a shucked oyster up close before. The nearest they got was in the form of an eggy omelette fried with cornstarch and chives eaten with a garlicky, sharp and spicy chili dip. Those oysters were minuscule, peppercorn to dime-size mollusca.
These two decide to book a seafood buffet and they go there early. They take a table closest to the cold seafood section.
Deceptively fresh, oysters there look plump and potent. They are on half shell laid on a bed of ice and decorated with lemons and parsley.
Each takes half a dozen, grabbing the fattest ones.
Back at their table, they stare at the oysters and then at each other. The captain recognises that anxious look of one totally out of depth with raw seafood, comes over quickly and makes some suggestions.
“Would Sir care for some lemon wedges and Tabasco?” is the polite enquiry.
Groom looks flustered and gets up immediately.
“There’s no need to get it yourself, Sir. We will send over some freshly sliced lemon wedges.” Again that benign plastic smile, the sort only found at pricey restaurants in hotels.
Bride looks pleased and asks quietly, “If Captain could perhaps show us how it’s done.” Pardon the pun but she actually means to say how the oysters are eaten, not what comes after. To her, the oysters suddenly look a rather intimidating sight, fat grey globs sitting unblinking in their puddle of juice.
Captain smiles and tutors thus: “To eat a raw oyster you will need to do the following:
1. Pick up one of the oysters by the shell.
2. Use the cocktail fork to detach the oyster from its shell.
3. Squeeze a little of the lemon on it, Add a dash of Tobacco.
4. Put the edge of the shell against your bottom lip and slurp the oyster into your mouth.
After that you’ll know what to do! Enjoy your raw oysters!” With that he beams and leaves.
Bride and Groom do the dutiful and pick up an oyster each. With a toast, they then gulp it down greedily.
Bride almost chokes: it is cold, watery and fishy smelling. She holds it in her mouth, it feels like a huge chunk of phlegm. Nausea rises in her throat. She closes her eyes and forces herself to swallow but instead bites on it. More salty slime bursts forth in her delicate cavity.
She feels sick, if not a little violated, and promptly spits out. The gooey stuff rests on her napkin, a dull grey mass with grainy black innards that looks like sand or mud to her. Disgusted, she stares at her Groom.
Groom has visions of marathon sessions in bed involving pulsating pelvic moves in which he is the proverbial valiant hero defying odds to bring his bride to dazzling heights of orgasmic heaven. These oysters would be his fuel.
And so he ignores Bride's stare and gamely swallows the rest of the 11, whilst Bride looks on impatiently and grows greener by each incredulous moment.
Dinner done, they head back to their honeymoon suite. Bride and Groom have an awful time as they try to make love without much success. Groom thinks the oysters need time to work. They brush their teeth again for the fourth time and gargle.
The smell of the oyster remains too much for Bride and yet, she will not do the act it without kissing either.
Groom suggests closed-mouth gentle pecks all over her face, promising to keep away from her nostrils and mouth.
Bride does not want neither and spends the rest of the night curled up in a foetal position crying.
Groom is furious; edgy even. He cannot think straight. His brain feels like lead, heavy but empty. All the blood seems to have coursed its way to his nether regions.
He smacks his palm on his forehead a few times. He is after all, section head of Mechanical Designs in the factory. Surely there are theories he can recall, some minor change in position, different angles, depths.... Anything.
He coaxes her gently at first, then begs. He scolds and reasons, but to no avail.
Then it comes slowly to him, a flutter and then a rumble. The Groom farts! A single syllable of a fart that is sharp and stinky. Bride bolts up on her side of the bed.
“Eeeeuwww, you farted! How could you?” she wails and cries louder.
Meanwhile, Groom's gut starts to hurt. His stomach churns and he feels his intestine fill up with more gas. A familiar feeling below the waist rings alarm bells. Groom recognises it quickly and scrams to the bathroom and slams the door. Just in time.
The torrent pours out from both ends of him; he is delirious and begins to see stars. He tries to blink it off, only to find a ringing in his ears. When his bodily orchestra quiets down, he slumps back in relief. A snippet of conversation floats in from the bedroom.
“Mother, I’m leaving him. He’s vile and disgusting and farts like a cannon! I don’t want this for a wedding night! It’s not supposed to be like this” Bride begins to wail loudly.
Groom is alarmed, but can only whimper weakly, “Er, Honey, I need more toilet paper!”
Doris Lim is a popular freelance writer who blogs as Little Fish on travel and food stories here. Be sure to check out her other inspiring
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