We had something real, Tiger and I

But I missed the signs. Like when he called me Rachel, then Jamie, Jamie again, then Vijay

Thank you all for coming. Please, take a seat.

I have a confession to make. It’s painful for me to reveal, but I’m a person of integrity and the truth must come out: I, Scott Feschuk, humble magazine columnist, was one of Tiger Woods’s mistresses.

With all we’ve learned these past couple of weeks, it’s demeaning to admit this. I feel so cheap and dirty when I read the tabloids, scan the Internet or use these Ken and Barbie dolls to depict for you the precise mechanics of our lovemaking.

Hang on, I need to bend Barbie all the way back to—there we go.

[A thud is heard near the back of the room.]

Could someone please tend to Mr. Blitzer? I believe he’s fainted.

I’m here today because I thought Tiger and I had something special, like in a fairy tale—but it turns out I was just another conquest, like in Charlie Sheen’s idea of a fairy tale. I was no better than the cocktail waitress, the restaurant manager, the event planner, those two kind of homely ladies, the Venezuelan water polo team, the adult movie star, the professor and Mary Ann.

I can’t describe to you the sense of betrayal I felt when I found out Tiger had been cheating on me while cheating with me. I thought I alone shared with him the cherished bond that’s formed by defiling the cherished bond of matrimony. It makes me physically ill to think that all along Tiger might have been telling others that their boobs remind him of Phil Mickelson’s.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m crying. Does anyone have any Kleenex? Yes, your tie will do, Geraldo. Thank you.

But how could I have known?? Tiger was always so romantic with me! He’d say such romantic things like “Don’t tell anyone I was here,” and “What’s your name again?”

With the power of hindsight, of course, I can see that I missed certain signs. For example, there was that time he called me Rachel, then Jamie, then Jamie again, then Vijay. And what made it humiliating was that I was wearing one of the Hello My Name Is . . . stickers he insisted on bringing along.

Tiger would come to me by night. We’d use cute little code words to arrange our steamy encounters. For instance, he’d call and say: “I’m coming over for sex. You’re not having your period or anything gross or stupid like that, are you? Because there’s a Denny’s just up the street with the hottest busgirls.” And I’d giggle and say: “The falcon perches atop the snowman.” He’d have hung up by then, but I enjoyed saying it anyway.

By the way, I’m not giving back the butt implants. He bought them for me and they’re mine. And they are spectacular.

What’s that? Yes, that’s right. The same surgeon that did yours, Mr. King.

Tiger treated me so well and made me feel soooo important. Being a classy guy, he always showed up with a special something. That’s what he called his penis. “I got a special something for you,” he’d say, and I’d laugh, and then he’d laugh, and then caddy Steve Williams would laugh because that’s part of his job. And then Steve would flip through a magazine until Tiger needed some advice on his approach.

Tiger wasn’t much for foreplay, I’ll tell you. But he did like to talk while we were being intimate. In fact, there were many nights when I couldn’t get him to shut up! He’d do this thing where he’d pretend to talk on his cellphone the whole time—it was so cute—and he’d say things like “How’d the Nikkei open?” and “Tell Gillette to double the offer or I’m walking.” I could even hear voices on the other end of the line—that’s how committed he was to creating our special fantasy where I was Procter and he was Gamble and we were consummating a “long-term multi-platform endorsement commitment.” He had such funny words for sex!

Don’t get me wrong: we had our fights. One time I caught him in my bed making out with my housekeeper, my accountant, two census workers and my Gund gorilla. But he insisted it was a misunderstanding—and then he got me his version of a “Kobe special”: a 10 per cent off coupon from the local Nike store. I ask you: how could I be expected to resist?

Tiger was protective. He didn’t like it when I asked about his wife or obsessively watched her in the kitchen from a tree branch. Tiger said he didn’t want his family to know about me—but that’s why I wore the owl costume, silly! I mean, I’m not crazy.

Alas, my time with Tiger proved to be fleeting. He never showed up again after that one night when it dawned on him that I’m a guy. Tiger was usually here and gone so quickly that this kind of minor detail never registered with him. Plus I have soft hands.

I’m heartbroken that he’s stopped calling. It’s like a piece of my soul has gone missing. And all I’m left with are the fading memories of our 179 sexual encounters, along with the audiotapes, videotapes, 8 x 10 glossies, live­blogs and notarized transcripts thereof.

Let the bidding begin.

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