Creative Nonfiction – July 2019

48 RECOLLECTIONS OF A FLY SEX THERAPIST | NATALIE VAN HOOSE

its eyes, you’ll see a tubelike appendage that

can be extended and retracted like an arm.

This is the proboscis, which functions much

in the same way as a giant straw. At the end is

the labellum, two large fleshy lobes lined with

bristle-like hairs. When a fly lands on a poten-

tial source of food, it tastes it with sensors in

its labellum and on its leg hairs. If it likes what

it has found, the fly will regurgitate digestive

enzymes from its salivary glands onto the dish.

The enzymes get to work, breaking down the

food into a hearty liquid form. The fly then uses

its mouthparts as part-straw, part-sponge to

slurp up the broth.

It’s not just your food that is in danger of

being puked on

by a fly, though.

Houseflies are like

babies—they’re

compelled to taste

everything they

encounter.

In the early days

of the experiment,

it was difficult not

to jerk my hand out

of the cages when

the flies landed on

me, as they invari-

ably did. But I grew

accustomed to their

touch, even when I

could feel dozens of

tiny, moist labella

daub at my arm,

sampling the flavor

of my skin.

verena, Drion’s

tall German

colleague and my

immediate supervi-

sor, showed me

how to dissect out

the salivary glands

from an infected fly

and prepare them

into a filtrate that

could be injected

into healthy flies.

MdSGHV not only

resulted in hyper-

trophied glands,

but also turned

them an outlandish blue, the kind of color you

would only expect to find in deep-sea creatures.

It was actually quite beautiful.

Drion often grilled me, looming over my

shoulder as I injected unconscious flies, the