Tiger Woods recently apologized for his affairs with a plethora of Caucasian women, but there was one man he did not apologize to. That man is I. Tiger, or el tigre, as he likes to be called by his lovers, did not apologize, or thank me, for giving him the best night of our lives, yet never calling me back. It all happened on my visit to Bubbi Steinberg in West Palm for the Christmas break of 2008. I was hitting up the bars of Miami like Chris Brown hits up modern day pop stars, and it was in one of these establishments that I saw him. He was seated at one end of the bar and I took a seat at the other end. The bartender, a young latino named Raul, came over and asked for ID. I flashed him my fake ID that read Jamaal Sanders, age 21, and I ordered some type of martini, either an appletini or a nectarini. A short while later Raul approached me with a beer. “Ees from señor Woods” he said, pointing to Tiger. “He told me eet was for the delicious looking red head.” Delicious looking? I thought. Dat’s messed up. Tiger was looking right at me, and when our eyes connected, he licked his Afro-Asian lips and nodded for me to come over. The tiger was on the prowl, but I had brought my hunting equipment. “You look hot,” he whispered, as I took a seat next to him.
“You don’t look too cool yourself,” I cooly replied.
He giggled. “You’re funny,” he said. “What is your name?”
“The name’s Sanders,” I answered. “Jamaal Sanders.”
“That’s a pretty name,” Tiger told me. “Do you want to get out of here?”
“Sure” I said, completely aroused.
We walked out of the bar together with his bodyguards, Big T and Michelin, aptly named for the giant white tire man. When we got to his limo, he opened the door for me, and I entered an interior of leather seats and enough drinks to satisfy the needs of John Belushi in Animal House. We drove around for a while and talked about politics, current events and various ancient philosophies. He’s quite a thinker, that Tiger Woods.
“Where are we?” I asked him, as we drew to a stop.
“We’ve reached my lair,” he said. “Follow me.”
Once we entered his secret underground lair, the story, if told in detail, would be too inappropriate for this paper. Put simply, using a whip, a variety of creams and herbal essences and all my strength, I was able to tame that jungle beast. When I woke up the next morning, Tiger was gone. Michelin drove me home, and said Tiger would call, and that I should not bother calling him. He never called, but hey, at least now I have revealed my true self – one of the thousands who can claim they slept with a Tiger, and who lived to tell the tale.
