My Phlebotomist Thinks I'm Sexy

(No phlebotomists were harmed in the production of this story).

Last week, there was a Red Cross blood drive in my building. They were slammed with people all day (a good problem to have – too many donors), and I was the second to last person. By the time I got there, the staff was getting a little punchy.

So while I’m at the interview station (“Have you exchanged money or drugs for British beef since 1977?”), one of the technicians comes by to fix a computer issue and, I swear to Og, gives me “elevator eyes”. Now, I am wearing a (relatively) new suit and have somehow managed to get through the day without spilling curry on myself. I am basically as good looking as I get, but that is not much. I am wearing the one tie in North America that my wife, my clothier, and I all agree is a nice tie, which Elevator Girl comments on: “That’s a lovely tie”. This is unusual for me, in the same way that snowballs are unusual for Hell, and Cubs are unusual for World Series.

You may know, or maybe your friends have told you, how in a particular magazine’s letters department, they always give offhand descriptions of out-of-this world gorgeous people. “Sally was a simple country girl with blonde hair, blue eyes, a tiny waist, and a guarantee that she won’t turn into her mother in twenty years. Also, big knockers.” Well, my description would read something like “kdeus was a middle aged, middle weight, medium tall sort of fellow with a special gift in a certain department, as long as ‘a certain department’ means ‘back hair’”. So having an attractive young lady look at me once, let alone twice, was enough to bump my blood pressure a few points.

Halfway through the preliminaries (did you know they don’t use Copper Sulfate to test your iron level anymore? Goodbye, little blue vial.). Misha (the technician) comes back, LOOKS ME OVER AGAIN, and says “You have the loveliest brown eyes”. The interviewer considers writing “aflutter” in the block for my pulse rate.

I get to the Recliner of the Little Pinch, and, alas, fate separates me from Misha; I am in the perfectly capable hands of Samantha. She asks me to verify my name, and I ask her to verify hers. I think I’m funny, mostly because I am wearing the unanimously approved tie. Samantha is as pleasant and attractive as Misha, and I am baffled at my good fortune. I verify my donor number and Samantha asks me to roll up my sleeves. Now I have been around the block, chased a few skirts and licked my share of peanut butter (a la Family Guy), but nothing prepared me for:

(Samantha) “Mmmmm, you’re huge! Misha, come look at this”

(Misha) “Oh, my. That’s juicy”

(Samantha) “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen one that big”

(the third technician, a very friendly middle-aged lady with a thick Puerto Rican accent chimes in) “You always get the little ones at the end of the day. The ones who take forever to finish.”

(Samantha) “I need to see the other side, too… Ooo, that’s just as nice!

(Misha) “Which one are you going to do?”

(Samantha) “That big one right in the middle.” (Brief panic, then the realization that, apparently, there are a variety of veins in the inner arm) “I’ll just pull the skin tight?” (Haven’t you done this before?)

(Misha) “Yeah, that should do fine”

At this point, prick my finger and I could fill a bag from across the room. Nobody makes noises like that on my account. I’m much more the “That was nice. Would you like some breakfast?” kind of guy. The chance of me hearing “Mmmmm, you’re huge” is slightly less than the chance of me hearing “Hail to the Chief” when I walk in the room. Ladies and Gentlemen, my phlebotomist thinks I’m SEXY.

In addition, by this time, several people have commented on my awesome tie. Misha has sent text messages across the country, summoning Red Cross personnel away from natural disasters to come and look at my tie. I am actually a little uncomfortable with all the attention, so I point out that the guy next to me (a military person in uniform with ribbons, etc.), though he has no tie, does have a Commendation Medal with the Operational Distinguishing Device. It’s a pretty high award, so chances are he’s got a story to tell. And now that news of the tie has gotten out, there are enough people around to start a cult. His technician, not wanting to be overshadowed by the girl-whose-guy-has-the-tie-that-ends-world-hunger, jumps on the “hero” theme with both feet. This is also her opportunity to torment the intake folks, who have little to do now that the day is winding down.

(Puerto Rican lady) “Oh, my goodness, a real hero right here! Are you comfortable? Can I get you a Pepsi? Chris! Get my donor a Pepsi!” CHREEZ!!!

Except with her accent, it sounds like “Get my dotteropacksi!” which confused the hell out of both of us (donors) until, after repeated requests, Chris brought her donor a Pepsi.

Well, a few more appreciative moans over my veins and moons over my tie later, and I am eating chocolate chip cookies and drinking orange juice at the canteen. Altogether, my most satisfying blood donation experience to date. I may never be rich, and I will probably always refer to my 20’s a “Back when people thought I had potential”, but phlebotomists dig me. It’s a niche market, sure, but I know where I’ll be in eight weeks.

No, Man, don’t go back! You will never top that experience. Let it end there and treasure it always. You can donate at another location.

Similar thing happened to me once in a grocery store. I’ve never shopped there again, 'cause I know my previous time there will never be equaled.

Kudos for the ego boost dude, and I really hate to burst your bubble, but I’m pretty sure they were vampires. So maybe your bubble isn’t burst after all; you have HUGE, THICK, THROBBING veins that are incredibly sexy to vampires.

“Vampire Phlebotomists” is a demographic I am perfectly willing to target.

And it would be a terrible band name. “And now, all the way from Peoria, The Vampire Pleb, uh, Fleebaa, uh… The Vampire Pees!’”


Some versions of the Odyssey tell of an island with a blood bank staffed with goth phlebotomists. Sailors are lured to their doom by the brooding looks and heavy makeup of the phlebotomists (and also because they think donating blood is just a good idea.) Odysseus, predictably, escapes death by stuffing his arms inside his tunic and sticking the arms torn off of a marble statue into the armholes of his shirt. The goth phlebotomists break every one of their needles on the perfectly carved marble veins.

Don’t say it, Nemo.
Don’t say it, Nemo.
Don’t say it, Nemo.

Okay…I’ve got it under control now

You need a T-shirt (that matches the tie, natch);

Phlebotomists Dig Me

or …

My Veins Go To Eleven

Wow. I’ve never had anything like that happen at a whole-blood donation. Though a couple of weeks ago while giving platelets

…I hear someone calling, “Sunspace?” I look up, and the pretty lady on the next donation cot is a fellow Doper!

Misha and Samantha? Man, you’re killing me! Follow your fantasy to its logical conclusion and you’ve got a primo porno script.

Thousands of years ago, when I was in good physical condition, I had really nice vein definition. I dated a phlebotomist for a while and came to believe that she actually thought my veins were sexy. It always seemed very strange to hear compliments about my veins.

There’s a joke in here somewhere about draining the vein but I can’t find it.

My phlebotomists think I am a girly man. One who screams.

GIRLY MAN! Video time:

I don’t even have a phlebotomist. Where do I get one? A sexy female?

Three women admired your veins at a grocery store? What the hell were you shopping for?

Goth vampire phlebotomists, obviously.

We certainly do enjoy working with big veins.


Is such a lonely word
Everyone is so on true
Is hardly ever heard
And mostly what I need from you

Signed, phlebotomyboy63

In Soviet Russia, prick fingers you!

The real reason I opened this thread was to find out what a ‘phlebotomist’ is, obviously. I think I know now.

A long long time ago, I was a regular platelet donor, at the local hospital, I got hooked up with pediatric oncology, and the drive to minimize numbers of donors for children with long term needs. So, I came every two weeks, for up to six months at a time. One day, as I hopped into the old double wing donor chair, the chief phlebotomist herself called out in a loud voice, “Hey, go get Sally, she needs to do this guy!”

A brief total silence, followed by a very loud laugh by everyone in hearing range.

“No, no!” Da chief assures me. “I mean, you’re easy!”

“I don’t think you’re getting out of this yet.” I mention.

“Sigh. No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that this is her first time, you know.”

Sally arrives. She is blushing.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll be gentle.”