I have a shocking confession to make, and it’s something you just don’t see men reveal publicly.

OK, here goes: I’ve had a mistress for decades.

Even though I’m fully aware of how self-destructive that is, I can’t bring myself to end it.

She’s mean and ruthless and unforgiving. Oh, she’ll treat me splendidly every now and then, but she only does so to see how deflated I get when she goes back to abusing me with cruel mind games. And, man, do my pockets empty in a hurry when I’m with her.

I’ll sneak away to spend two, sometimes even four, hours with her. And here’s the kicker: She almost always is nicest to me at the very end of our time together, which keeps me coming back for more punishment.

And then there is that two-week window every summer where she spoils me. For a change, everything I do is the right thing. It leads me to believe I’ve finally mastered the relationship and things will remain great forever. On the contrary.

As quickly as the kinder, gentler mistress arrives, she vanishes. Maybe I get too cocky, too eager, too greedy. Whatever I do is wrong. And the relationship turns sour again. I find myself back at her mercy, back searching for the key to her locked-up kindness.

She takes me on walks through the woods, where mosquitoes drain my blood and I seldom find what I seek. She sends me into creeks and ponds and then penalizes me for going there. She sets the rules. If I want to remain in this addictive affair, I must follow them.

Why do I put myself through it? I asked myself that very question and decided to stop seeing my mistress for a period of seven years. Then, 10 years ago, the itch returned, and so did the mistress.

I convinced my wife my spending habits had become more responsible with age. She lent me the cash card. My strategy: Maybe $600 worth of new presents would improve the relationship with my mistress. It did, but only temporarily. If you’ve ever met my mistress, you understand.

Her name is golf.

The $600 worth of gifts were oversized Titleist DCI irons, purchased in 1996. The 7-iron did get me an ace on the 154-yard, par-3 13th hole. I’d love to be able to say it was the only “1” on my card that day, but I shot a 111 on Aug. 11, 1997, at Oak Hills in Norwalk, Conn.

My grandfather, Cleveland Thomas Keegan, who in the summer played baseball for pay under an assumed name so he could maintain his eligibility at Syracuse University, aced a hole. My father, John F. Keegan, also had an ace to his good name. I inherited their passion for golf, just not their talent. They shot in the 70s on the days of their aces.

To the detriment of my psyche, my mistress followed me to Lawrence. My search for how to control her continues with a weekly golf page, “Lawrence Links,” which debuts today. I’ll feature pros from the local courses, then join area celebrities for a side or two of golf.

While I’m on vacation (read: golfing out-of-state), Scott Tittrington will give a lefty pitcher’s perspective (golfs right) on the sport. Come to think of it, maybe my problem is I’m a left-handed golfer and just don’t know it. If only I could find that cash card, I could buy a lefty set and give it a shot.