Posted by: Patrice Fitzgerald | December 8, 2009

Tiger Woods Mistress #10 — Okay, I confess. It’s me!

I’ve had enough.  All these babes coming out of the Woodswork (you know I had to say it).  And not a word about me and the greatest golfer of all time.

It’s true that I’m not a Perkins waitress, a porn star, or a golf tournament groupie. But gosh darn it, I will not be ignored.

Our trysts did not involve Ambien, texting, sexting, or tweeting.  They were, in fact, more traditional.

I liked it that way.

Tiger and I got together through the old-fashioned medium of television.  I watched him as often as I could manage — I had to make sure that my husband didn’t get jealous — it couldn’t be every weekend.

I remember my eager anticipation as Tiger approached, his manly shoulders squared. The masterful way he wrapped his strong arms around the equipment.  The long drives followed by the short strokes.  And then… I blush to say… my bliss when it went into the hole.

No one can imagine how he made me feel.

And now it’s all so dirty!  The tabloids, the press frenzy.  All those floozies.  Nine of them, as of yesterday.  Maybe thirteen tomorrow.

I’m above that kind of trash.  My relationship with Tiger was aboveboard.  So pristine and admirable was my love that even his wife approved.

I’m proud to say that she knew all about me.  And she didn’t mind.

Alas, it’s ruined.  Never again can the man of my dreams tee it up for me in quite the same way.

Farewell, Tiger my love.  I will always remember the way you swing.

And don’t worry; I’ve taken my name off my phone.

P.S.  Call me when the paparazzi go home!

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