Salad Days, Volume 86: the 'Bunny-Jo Tyler 'Incident

Famed Actress and 'Gentleman's Club' Entertainer,

Bunny-Jo Tyler, 50F

It was, as it usually was, sometime in the eary-mid '80's, and me, 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 cocktail, pondering our plans for the 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 aquainted, is a 'Gentleman's Club extraordinaire, an establishment of the highest Bulesque, Tittilating Tavern of Temptation: a Strip Club, basically. Now, I wasn't the biggest fan of Strip clubs per se. 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 those places to appear to be sensative. 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 eneded up deciding to go down to the Foxy Lady. We pick up two of our esteemed cronies, I'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 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. With in five minutes, the stallion is right up next to the stage, in a veritable hammer-lock betwwen 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 sensibilites of those greedy Hootchy Mamas up on stage.

So things are going swell. There are some great opening acts, doing their sexy things to the strains of Rick James, or what-not . But the main event, eagerly anticipated, and just about to come on: one Miss Bunny-Jo Tyler. Bunny-Jo's claim to fame, as it were, was her anatomical measurements. This young Lady was a 50-F bust size! Talk about your Mother, Jugs and Speed! The girl was a marvel of nature. Anyway, the music starts, the lights go down, and the smoke rolls across the main stage. Out into the spotlight glides the biggest set of boobs this young reporter had ever seen. Bunny-Jo was wearing this outfit like the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, with high boots, chaps, a Cowboy hat and the whole works. But the piece-de-resistence was that she had, in her hands, some sort of bottle rockets or something, kinda like she was shooting 6-guns or something. As she strutted about, boobs-a-blazing, she would 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 Ginormous members, 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 balls of fire coming straight toward me. Onlty it wasn't going out. The petulant pyrotechnic hurtled toward me at a speed to fast for me to escape. I ducked as best as I could, but the flaming bullet of love whacks into the mirrored wall just above my head and bounces onto my skull. Immediate sparks and flame ensue on 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 smoldeing skull. After my life flashes before my eyes, the first thing I think about is 'lawsuit', then 'naw, that'd never work, how'bout 'free drinks all night'. After all, I could have been killed, after all. Bunny-Jo, ever the consumate professional, strikes up the music immediately, and struts on over to my side of the room ,where me and Jake sit like deer in the headlights. Now, I don't know if you've ever been approached by a sexy stripper, sporting a come-hither look and a 50" bust, but brother let me tell you, it was quite a fright. 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, my friend. As the music strobed, Bunny applied her mammoth mammalian protuberances 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 clubs faded and all I could hear was the sound of the Ocean. "Just like a Conch shell" I thought to myself. Darkness 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 cheerng and going 'Yoo-yoo-yoo-yoo-yoo'! Every time I went to the Men's room, 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 a brief tete-a-tete. My hair was a complete mess, but I never spent a dollar out of my stash of bills. Bunny-Jo couldn't have been more nice about the whole thing.

Anyhoo, 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 either, though I've subsequently found out she's a somewhat noteworthy actress and adult entertainer (google to the rescue again). But that night, I was the story at the Foxy, 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 this story. And, for that matter, thank God for Bunny-Jo Tyler and her fantastic 50-F's. To think I could have stayed home. Or worse yet, to think I could have been working.