What this when they did it with two needles, in one arm and out the other?
Solid gold.
Yes, and they had hollow vines for tubes, and bone needles. (not to mention the Witch Doctor chanting over the blood.)
Tris
When I think someone’s veins are sexy, I say ‘wow, I could penetrate you with a cocktail straw.’
Beautifully written OP! Move you south a few states and change the sexual orientation, and presto! we’d have another Sampiro.
No really–it’s a great OP, and does remind me of the many great ones we’ve had from Sampiro.
No one’s asked yet so…
I need a picture of the magic tie, man. And here I thought it was all about dick size…
Cracked me right up, that did.
I’d love to have a Doper to talk to while I do pheresis. I get this nice older couple to talk to every other time I go, though.
They still do double-needle. That’s what they do with me. Single needle takes longer, and since I usually give a triple, they do double needle.
I gave blood for many years (before the Red Cross adopted its $*%&#! overcautious Mad Cow Disease policy), and had several cute phlebotomists catch my eye, but I never had an experience like kdeus. Lucky bastard.
I’m a hard stick anyway, and being fat and underhydrated, getting more impossible all the time. The last time (I drank as much as I could for it being first thing in the morning, really), neither vein worked out. But I did feel slightly creepy about how much the (male) phlebotomist felt he had to caress my arm. So, not quite the polar opposite of your story, but somewhere on the negative side.
If you had played your cards right, you could have got some phlebotio!
Too funny! I’ve got garden hoses for veins as well, but I’ve never been lusted over. <pout>
Troub, let’s pherese together! I haven’t donated lately though; still nursing the young one.
Lucky stiff. I’ve been seeing phlebotomists a fair bit lately, and one of them’s pretty cute, but I don’t think any of them have ever flirted with me. I’m always done with my donation quickly… Maybe they consider that indicative?
I’ve also often pondered whether there’s any correlation between attractive phlebotomists and low-blood side effects among male donors. The amount of blood used for… that… is actually non-neglible compared to the amount taken out.
I would also like to see the tie in question.
Thank Og I had already finished my Coke when I read this. 
Virginia, huh? I’ve been donating for 35 years, and I think I’ve had fewer cute phlebotomists total than kdeus had in one room. And I have nice, big, wide veins also.
That was hilarious! Boys and girls, I think we most definitely have a competitor for awesome storytellin’.
Unfortunately, being five four and barely a spit over the minimum mass required, I can’t say as I’ve ever been ogled by the folks in the blood bank bus when it shows up at work. I have, however, been given the hairy eyeball when I present myself. “Are you *really sure * you’re a buck fifteen?”
Ah, phlebotomists! When I give blood, I can’t stop my mind from imagining Queen, singing “Flea Bottom Girls make the rockin’ world go 'round!”
Bless their bloodthirsty hearts. 
Wasn’t there a scene in “The Lonely Guy” where Steve Martin passes out b/c he keeps donating blood to meet women?
They used to think my platelets were sexy. I started donating for one of my wife’s coworkers. There was just something about my platelets they liked. After the lady finshed her treatments, they continued calling for other patients, mostly children. They told me I was CMV (?) negative, which made me suitable for young chemo patients. They called about once a month and asked me to come down for abot a year.
But, alas, it wasn’t meant to be. I was (and still am) struggling with hypertension and hyperlipidity. They turned me away several times because my BP was too high. “But, stick a needle in me an relieve some pressure,” I offered, eager to experience the thrill of the forbidden, the rush of the lowered body temperature, the tingly purple lips.
“No, that spoils the mood,” they replied. Once or twice, I was able to go out to the lobby and meditate (i.e. take a quick nap) and get my pressure down below the limit. They relented and then I got my fix.
But, like any furtive affair, all good things must come to an end. One afternoon, they called and I tooled on down to the center. My BP was under the limit, just barely. They tied off the tourniquette and inserted the needles and started the centrifuge. I settle back into the lounger to get lost in the bliss. The phlebotmist returns in a few minutes to check on me and starts cursing, much like a lover who has waited for weeks, only to have her man spoil the moment with a premature ejaculation.
He turns off the centrifuge and lifts up the collection bags. The tubes are full of milky white serum. My blood was so full of lipids (high density, low density, triglycerides, I don’t know) that the platelets wouldn’t spin out in the centrifuge.
“I hope you realize we have to throw this pack away,” he snarled. “These things cost over sixty dollars.” He withdraws the needles in a sullen silence.
I left, feeling rejected and unwanted. They never called again.