Our weekly dispatch from the nation's foremost mustache expert (the veracity of which cannot be verified).

Since the late-November car crash in front of his Florida home, I have watched from afar as Tiger Woods' life crumbles around him.

I sat silently while the likes of Kalika Moquin, Jaimee Grubbs, Rachel Uchitel, Holly Sampson, Jamie Jungers, Joslyn James, Mindy Lawton, Sarah Palin (just checking if you were paying attention) and others have claimed to have had sexual liaisons with Tiger. Meanwhile, I have struggled through a personal crisis of conscience, debating whether I should tell my story -- knowing it will only add to the emotional trauma from which Tiger's lovely wife, Elin, must be suffering.

Clearly, however, I owe it to the American people and golf fans everywhere -- I owe it to myself -- to tell my story: I slept with Tiger Woods.

Let's go back to 1998, when I was working as a golf cart mechanic at English Turn Country Club, where, until 2006, the PGA had held its New Orleans tour stop.

It was a breezy March evening and Tiger was in New Orleans to help promote the upcoming tournament. I had just finished work and was putting -- just putting, at night -- with the 15-year-old daughter of the dean of Loyola University, where I was attending college at the time. As I prepared to stroke a 12-foot putt on the island green of English Turn's famed 15th hole, Tiger spied me while walking by with a throng of reporters and cameras.

He stepped across the bridge and said, "Hey, kid, can I lend a hand?"

I nodded, and Tiger walked up behind me, gently reaching around my torso, guiding my arms with rugged warmth and precision as my Titleist smoothly glided down the green and into the cup. Then he whispered rhythmically in my ear, "That's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it," adding, "How about dinner at the Palace Cafe on Canal Street?"

Now, I'm not gay. Since I was kid, I've only eaten Twinkies with a fork. But, this was Tiger freakin' Woods beckoning me. I felt a strange desire to fulfill a need I didn't know existed. So in spite of my Mustached American cat-hating, all-man instincts, I thought, "Maybe I compromise?"

We went to dinner and shared a bottle of Mateus. Afterward we took in some music at Donna's Bar, on the corner of Rampart and St. Anne streets. And when the Rebirth Brass Band pumped out its last note at 2 a.m., I was Tiger's prey, and he knew it. He invited me back to his hotel room to admire his generous putter.

He stood before me, his red golf shirt opened suggestively, and I glanced shyly down through the two open buttons at his rippling chest, which was glowing in the light from the ice machine outside the room. (In my haste, I had forgotten to close the door to the room.)

"Put it on my fairway," I urged.

"You're getting the 10-degree driver," he grunted. "And there's no backspin on this shot!"

When we moved from the practice range to the championship tee, he drove the green perfectly, lining up a big breaking putt that hit the back of my cup. It was sweaty and passionate, yet sweet and gentle, like eating pudding while riding a bicycle. It was like nothing I had experienced since leaving the priesthood.

Afterwards, we talked into the morning about life, love and his desire to start a charitable foundation for abused primates.

I never saw Tiger after that, except on television. But I'll never forget that night -- Tiger's secret passion, his putter, and the mint on the pillow that adhered to my back that I found in the shower later the next morning.

And as I watch Tiger's current dilemma unfold, it pains me to no end to see these attention seeking home-wreckers in search of fame and fortune scavenge and peck at such a beautiful man like vultures to a roadside carcass.

Tiger, I'm here for you.


For Dr. Abraham J. Froman's mustache perspective, check in every Wednesday on Asylum.