Blood Whore

This bit was written after a trip to a blood bank...
Originally written on: July 31st 2008

“No,” I answered. “I don’t have AIDS and I haven’t slept with a gay man.” I thought it best to not add as far as I know to the second part of my response- a few weeks earlier one of my ex-boyfriends had been spotted prancing about at the Pride Festival with a pack of strung out gay boys. Yes, correlation does not imply causation but I couldn’t help but think about all the times he’d solicited me for anal sex.
The physician’s substitute gave me an appraising look that lasted a moment too long and then sighed.
“Well, let’s get the physical examination out of the way and then we’ll get you hooked up to the machine.”
The machine looked like it dated back to the early nineteen seventies- The boxy exterior was coated in a rough, burlap-brown and clear tubes sprouted out of the various holes that riddled the top and sides.
After frisking me, the physician’s substitute led me to one of the pleather recliners that sat adjacent to the vampiric contraption that was waiting to suck out my blood. After I settled into the oversized chair, a female med student approached me brandishing a two-inch needle at my unsuspecting arm. She wore powder blue scrubs and was sporting a clear plastic face shield that was anchored to her head. The face shield should have been my first indication that things could potentially get messy but I chose to ignore the tumor of apprehension that was growing in the back of my throat.
“You have really little veins, you know that?”
I was surprised that her comment left me feeling a little insulted. I should have answered with oh, tell me about it! You have no idea what a pain in the ass it is trying to locate a decent sized vein when I’m shooting up! Instead I just gave her a weak smile and mumbled something about being sorry. Apparently my half-assed apology didn’t suffice and my punishment for having peewee veins was a series of failed attempts to properly stick me with the needle. I told myself that this was all a part of the process, that the person repeatedly stabbing me was a competent professional and I needn’t worry.
After about six and a half tries, she managed to lodge the needle into the crook of my arm and within seconds of hearing the machine whir to life I began to feel my soul seeping out me.
I forbid you to pass out! I thought to myself.
I flipped open the sci-fi book I’d brought along with me and tried to concentrate on the words on the page…

…my head was lolled over to the side in a most ungodly position that allowed my chin to rest on my chest when I came to. Swallowing back a torrent of nausea, I raised my sweaty hand and signaled to one of the scrubby girls. She returned my gesture with a saccharine smile and a limp-wristed wave.
“No, damnit, I feel like shit!”
My screamed obscenity caught the attention of the physician’s substitute and he came rushing over.
“Wow, you look like shit, too!”
I was too disoriented to think of a suitable response to match his statement of the obvious so I just laid my head back and closed my eyes instead.
“You must keep your eyes open, okay?”
Fuck that, I thought. The female med student turned masochist appeared at my side and pushed the red “reverse” button on the blood-milker. Almost immediately the feeling of impending death began to dissipate and was replaced with a heavy dose of shock.
After unceremoniously ripping the needle out of my arm, they handed me a silver pouch of imitation grape juice and a check for a measly forty dollars.
“Pull another stunt like again and we probably won’t ask you back next time.”
Dually noted, asshole.
I managed to haul my sticky body out to my car where I slumped down into the driver’s seat staring cross-eyed at the steering wheel. The bandage wrapped around my elbow was digging into my skin and I couldn’t fully extend my arm without whimpering like a weasel caught in a rat trap. Against my better judgment I started the car and drove myself home where I pounded two industrial sized cans of pineapple tidbits.
“You going to have the shits,” my roommate warned.
Plumbing issues were the least of my concerns at that moment and it took my last whiff of energy to slog to my room. I was thanking the sweet lord Jesus that I was right next to my bed when my knees buckled and dropped me face down on the mattress. The delirium started to mist over me but before I could slip into a coma my sugar-sloshed brain posed what I took to be a rhetorical question:
What part of your body will you sell tomorrow, you silly little slut?

Start from the beginning...

This blog (what a cursed word!) will be a dizzying mix of excerpts from two of my ongoing pieces of written work and various things that just come to me as I see fit. The following bit comes from something I wrote one July 31st 2008:

Oxidized:

Swallow hard and let it slow your heart. You clench your jaw as the conflicting chemicals battle for control of your body. You’re not really sure which one you’re rooting for but you’re desperate for some sort of altered state of mind. Is this another one of your subconscious attempts to make a nippy exit stage left? You know it won’t work but you can’t help but invite the savagely appealing thought into the forefront of your psyche and offer it a drink. You forget that you and the teetering notion are old friends- she will never abandon you nor will she cease to offer you the trickster way out.

Testing Testing

Preliminary post for my attempt at this newfangled act of bloggery. More to come, please keep it tuned right here to Dirty Assertions.