(I know, I know,s strippers. But I was in my twenties. And a knucklehead. So sue me.)
Salad Days, Volume 86: the 'Bunny-Jo Tyler 'Incident
Famed Actress and 'Gentleman's Club' Entertainer,It was, as it usually was, sometime in the eary-mid '80's, and I, in my natural prime, was living on the cushy outskirts of Boston, living la vida mocha, doing the construction worker thing by day, and the savoir-faire jet-setting dance-club denison by night. It was the best of times, it was the best of times, as Chas. Dickens used to say. It was Friday afternoon, and our long week of toil had just ended. Me and some of the team were sitting around the pad after a refreshing swim and a cocktail, pondering our plans for this fine summer evening. My cousin I-Dog comes up with the idea to head down to Providence and hit the 'Foxy Lady'. The Foxy Lady, if'n you weren't acquainted, is a 'Gentleman's Club extraordinaire, an establishment of the highest Burlesque, Titillating Tavern of Temptation: you know, a Strip Club, basically. Now, I wasn't the biggest fan of Strip clubs per sé. Not that I was a prude. Neither was it that I didn't enjoy seeing babes naked. I wasn't one of those guys, either, who only said they disliked strip joints to appear to be sensitive. I don't know what it was. Maybe it was just my cheap Scottish streak that found it distasteful to dish out my hard earned Dollar Bills down the garter of some harlot 'working her way through college' at my expense.
But, in the long run, I-Dog and my Penis were pretty persuasive, and we ended up deciding to go down to the Foxy Lady. We pick up two of our esteemed cronies, Ian's best buddy Jake, and ol' Joe Pace, the 5' 1" Italian stallion, son of a Brick Mason, and possibly the funniest bastard you'd want to meet. So we get our pans all greased up and about 10 o'clock we find ourselves in the sleazy, smoky environs of Providence's biggest and best 'Hootchy-Kootchy'. Ian and Guiseppe, of course, head right to the front of the stage, fistful of crinkly dollar bills eagerly grasped between their sweaty mitts. It's go-time for them. Within five minutes, the Stallion is right up next to the stage, in a veritable hammer-lock between the thighs of one of the dancers. I-Dog is beside him, waving his bills, having his 'picture taken' by one of the other 'entertainers'. Now me and ol' Jake, we're a bit more practical. We're not going to shoot our wad all at once, so to speak. We're waaay up back at a table against the far wall, sipping our drinks and smoking and joking about the whole affair. We're having a grand time watching the action, but from as safe distance, far from the solicitous sensibilities of those greedy Hootchy Mamas up on stage. Unlike Big I and Lil' Joe, our stash of dollar bills are folded, safe and dry in our pockets as we enjoy the quality entertainment. There are some great opening acts, doing their sexy dances to the musical strain's of Rick James, or the Ohio Players. But the main event, eagerly anticipated, and just about to come on: one Miss Bunny-Jo Tyler. Star of silver screen and gentleman's magazines, like "Busty"
and "Gent". Bunny-Jo's claims to fame, as it were, were her anatomical measurements. This gifted and talented young entertainer boasted a 50-F bust size! 50-F! Talk about your Mother, Jugs and Speed! The girl was a marvel of nature. Anyway, so the music starts, the lights go down, and the smoke rolls across the main stage. Then out into the spotlight glides the biggest set of boobs this young reporter had ever seen. Bunny-Jo was wearing this outfits like the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, with high boots, chaps, a Cowboy hat and the whole works. But the Pièce de résistance was that she had, in her hands, some sort of bottle rockets or something, kinda like she was sporting 6-shooters. As she strutted about the stage, boobss-a-blazing, she would simultaneously shoot out balls of fire that would disperse into the darkness of the club before going out into thin air. Seemed kind of contrary to fire code, but hey, it was Providence. Anyhow, me and Jake are sitting at our table, guffawing about Miss Tyler's gi-normous breests and slapping each other on the back, when, all of a sudden, I look up toward the stage just in time to see on of B.J.'s sexy sinful sparklers shooting straight toward me! Only it wasn't going out! The still flaming, petulant pyrotechnic hurtled toward me at a speed too fast for me to escape. I ducked as best as I could, but the fiery bullet of love whacks into the mirrored wall just above my head and bounces onto my skull. Immediate sparks and flame ensue on the top of my unsuspecting cranium. The music stops. Jake quickly dumps his Gin and Tonic onto my head and pats out the flames. A short pregnant silence follows. Everyone in the bar, including Miss Tyler , turns toward me and my still smoldering skull. After my life flashes before my eyes, the first thing I think about is, 'hey. I smell lawsuit', then 'naw, that'd never work'. Then I think 'hey, how'bout 'free drinks all night'. After all, I could have been killed...after all. But before I can start working on a plan to receive my just desserts, Bunny-Jo, ever the consummate professional, immediately strikes up the music again. She struts on over to our side of the room , where Jake and I sit like deer in the proverbial headlights. We had no idea what was to come next. Wait.What? Now, friends, I don't know if you've ever been approached by a sexy half naked stripper, sporting a come-hither look and a size 50-F bust, but brother let me tell you, it was quite a fright indeed. And a delight. Yes, a fright AND a delight. Miss Tyler approached my table and looked like she was about to give me the treatment. The dollar bills in my pocket set aside for emergency were not needed now. As the music strobed, Bunny began skillfully applying her mammaries to my head and upper torso in a manner, which, I could only assume, was to act as some kind of salve to my singed hair and burned scalp. As I was enveloped by her engorged melons, the bombastic sounds of the night club faded and all I could hear was the sound of the Ocean. "Just like a Conch shell" I thought to myself. Darkness then enveloped me, and for a few seconds, I felt serene and peaceful, liken to being in the womb. Then, suddenly, I rejoined the world of light and sound, and hundreds of screaming and cheering patrons of the Foxy Lady. I was a hit!!! Miss Tyler had turned a possible tragic incident into the highlight of her show! Guys were cheering and shouting 'Yoo-yoo-yoo-yoo-yoo'! Every time I went to the Men's room or bar the rest of the night, I was slapped on the back and congratulated. I never did get my free drinks for the night, which I thought was unfair, but I did receive an 8-1/2 -11'' autographed publicity photo of Bunny-Jo, and enjoyed a brief tete-a-tete with her backstage. My hair was a complete mess, but I never did spend a dollar out of my stash of lap-dance bills Bunny-Jo couldn't have been more nice about the whole thing. What a night.
Anyhow, I've never been back to the ol' Foxy Lady since ( well, wait a minute, that's not exactly true. There was a certain bachelor party a few years ago, but that's another story), and I've never seen Miss Bunny-Jo Tyler again either, though I've subsequently found out she's quite a noteworthy actress and adult entertainer (google to the rescue again). But for that night, for a shining moment in time, this cub reporter was the big story at the Foxy Lady of Providence RI. For being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Thank God for Jake's quick thinking and sacrifice of his G and T, or I might not be here to tell you this tale. And, for that matter, thank God for Bunny-Jo Tyler and her fantastic 50-F's. To think I could have stayed home that night. Or worse yet, to think I could have been working.
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