Cry Me a River

Everything felt perfect the time I flew to Vegas for a Justin Timberlake concert.  Not just any concert, his first solo tour sans NSYNC mmkay?  And yes, I flew! No five hour drive, just a quick forty-five minute flight with cocktail in hand ( insert long blissful contented sigh.)

Me and my girlfriends had been planning it for months.  We arrived at the MGM Grand hotel hours before this epic experience to consume large quantities of alcohol.  With booze burning a hole in our luggage, we wasted no time.  The year was 2003, so by booze I mean vodka and Apple Pucker.  Playing bartender in our hotel room, we mixed up large stiff martinis and served them in recycled Big Gulp cups(involuntary gag reflexes while typing.)  Bottomless beverages in hand and intoxication imminent, we strolled through the casino, feasted our eyes upon a lion’s ginormous testicles, and had a bite to eat…I think.  My memory is a little hazy. Stumbling through the halls, we made our way back to our room to get ready for this momentous occasion, only I passed out for who knows how long and woke up to the sounds of showers and blow dryers. I had to pull myself together! This was J.T live!

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With a shower under my belt aiding in my coherency, I was ready to try on my ensemble, and by ensemble I mean a perfectly thought out, timeless, fashion statement. I had done some Justin Timberlake research and found that he was into Harley Davidson motorcycles at the time. Not surprisingly, I made a trip to my local Harley store and purchased a flashy, bedazzled, blinged out Harley tank top…for him to see me in the audience of course. Also, my tried and true ultra low-rise “7” jeans and the perfect pair of strappy death traps  heels that absolutely and undeniably brought the entire look together. Hair straightened, make-up on and feeling fresh to death in my new digs, I looked like a hot piece of ass. Oh yeah! I was gettin’ me some J.T tonight.

*For the record,  I was engaged, not yet married and I had no kids.  What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas right?! So If Justin were to like the goods, who was I to deny him?

Everything felt perfect until I proceeded to complete the look with those fucking  amazing shoes.  I stuffed my bunion and wide ass Froto feet into them and tried to ignore the searing pain. Walking into the venue I played it off as best I could and as we made our way to our seats, the adrenaline kicked in and the fierce foot pain was forgotten momentarily.  The lights! The Justin! The dancing! The Justin!  But an hour or so later in the middle of “Cry Me a River,” I was almost in tears myself and had to sit down.  Amazing concert, amazing performance, amazingly excruciating hoof torture.

With the concert ending and lights aiding us into exit mode, I discovered that my feet looked like two giant pork roasts wrapped in twine, complete with burgundy colored, bulging foot meat protruding through the straps.  My girlfriends had to carry me, yes, carry me though the crowds of people.  Releasing my feet from the evil, satanic shoe’s grasp revealed something out of a mutilation scene from a horror flick. Upon arrival to our room I began massaging my swollen bulbous pork roasts to prepare for our night out because…youth.  Another round of Appletinis (shudder…) and my trusty flip-flops and I was ready to go.

Our second wind had just blown in. We were excited and prepared to make our way to the opposite end of the Las Vegas strip for Justin’s after party, only the strip was in gridlock traffic, the walk would take an hour, and the wait to get in would be at least that long…also, no flip-flops allowed. I knew that the journey and the required attire would be a physically impossibility and I didn’t want Justin to see my feet in these conditions… when we were alone in his suite coming up on third base.

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My dreams were crushed, but I had a high quality buzz going on and was not about to waste it. We meandered through the casino and bellied up to a bar. Within minutes we were approached by a seemingly harmless couple of dudes.  Buying us drinks and attempting small talk, we made our way to the dance floor. I just wanted to dance, but moments later it was apparent that I had to have “the talk” with this new male friend of mine.  I non chalantly turned to him and said “I’m sorry,  I’m engaged and I would prefer NOT to have you grinding your dick and balls into my back.”

* Just to clarify, this dude was no Justin Timberlake. So, This guy? No way, but J.T? Absofreakinglutely!

I stood my ground and made my boundaries known. Everything felt perfect until…he suggested swing dancing.  Swing dancing until six in the morning. Flailing, flapping and twirling back and forth like a rag doll for hours.  Couldn’t. Get. Away. At this point my feet felt like bloody amputated stumps. The “goods” that I was so hoping Justin would fancy had become a disheveled, sweaty, train wreck so I said sayonara to the merciless swing dancing monster and made my escape. I needed a three dollar steak and eggs breakfast, a healthy dose of caffeine and copious amounts of ibuprofen.

Five hours, one grisly greasy steak, and two cups of coffee later,  I was safely in the airport terminal, seated conveniently close to my gate and nodding off.  Everything felt perfect until the flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom and informed us that our flight had been delayed… four hours delayed.

 I could have spent a wild and passionate night with Justin Timberlake!

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I could have had HIS dick and balls pressed against my back…and my front! I could have slept and had steak and eggs in HIS bed and still made my delayed flight with time to spare. Those damn cock blocking shoes ruined any and all chances I would have had.  I guess some things just aren’t meant to be. I like to tell myself that Justin has a foot fetish, therefore it would have never worked out between us.

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It helps me sleep at night.

I have yet to fly to Las Vegas again, or to attend another J.T concert. I threw the shoes of hell into a bonfire and watched the demons of torture rise out of the flames, and do you know what pucker rhymes with? Fucker. That is what you are if you suggest or offer me an appletini.


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About the author

Sara Pittman

Sara is from sunny San Diego CA. She is a wife, busy mother of 3 and amateur chef stumbling through organized chaos on a daily basis using sarcasm and humor to soften the blow...that's what she said. She will take any opportunity to demonstrate the running man in public and enjoys being a sarcastic smart ass.


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