If he shook my hand in a reception line, he might give me a 40 watt smile and a thinkcognize look – a recollection of meeting me at fundraiser for wild children or amputee pets. But do not be fooled by his artful disinterest. We slept together. That’s how I know all those other bitches are lying. They aren’t his type. His type: mid forties, child ravaged, heavily dimpled, with a bartered haircut.

Since it’s going to come out, I decide to tell my husband. He is watching a game requiring uniforms. I sit down beside him and simply tell him.

"I slept with Tiger Woods," I say. "Wow. It feels good to get that off my chest."

He pauses the game, and turns to me, his eyes wide with excitement, "So, you’re interested in sex again?" He begins to rub my back.

"Knock it off," I say. "Don’t you care that I slept with Tiger Wood?"

"You did not sleep with Tiger Woods," he says. "You don’t even know what he looks like."

"Young, handsome black man wearing a polo shirt and a hat and carrying golf clubs – when he’s dressed. Trust me, the man knows his holes."

"Tiger doesn’t carry his own clubs. And lets face it Bell, he may know his holes, but you aren’t much for balls."

"True," I say, "I don’t even like melon balls. Maybe it wasn’t Tiger Woods after all. Maybe it was a Tiger Woods wannabe...a Tabby Fiberboard, if you will."

"Well, that’s sucks. There’s no fame or money in sleeping with Tabby Fiberboard." He starts the game again..

I hesitate before I say what’s next. It’s a far more difficult confession. "Honey, I was lying about Tiger Woods, but there is something I need to tell you. They found a spot on my mammogram."

This time, he turns the game off.