Forced Fem Noir

Because I published The Jaguar: The Birth of a Predator this weekend and that was previously available outside the United States, I wanted to give my non-American readers something different to buy from me, so I decided to release a collection for them.  Fortunately, it's available in the United States too.

Forced Fem Noir contains the stories Property of the Cheerleaders, The Mean Girl Mafia, and Perfect. It comes to just over 21,000 words of forced feminization fun.

Property of the Cheerleaders was written as an homage to Goodfellas. It mirrors the plot of the movie and contains dialogue that's also very much inspired by the movie:

To me, being a cheerleader was better than being a Kardashian. Long before I picked up my first pom poms, I knew that I wanted to be a part of them. It was there that I wanted to belong.

To me being a cheerleader meant being a somebody in a school full of nobodies.  They wore the trendiest clothes, dated the cutest boys, and went to all the best parties. They did whatever they wanted. They never did homework or studied for tests, but somehow they didn't flunk out.  Everybody knew they smoked and hung out in the second floor girl's room, but nobody ever gave them a hard time.  No teacher ever came to bust them.

That said, it got great reviews even from people who never saw Goodfellas.  Bibary was one of those people.  She gave it five stars saying, "It is an engrossing tale, full of genuine tension, and I was very pleased to see Kylie and Claudia did not shy away from the necessary conclusion."

The Mean Girl Mafia was a blast for me to write.  It's the story of a world weary former mall cop who is forced to take a job as a high school dean. He stumbles onto a conspiracy where the worst troublemaker boys at the school are being feminized, but nobody wants him to investigate it. Soon he gets drawn in and he finds himself threatened. I tried to write in the style of the old hard boiled detective stories and I think I succeeded. In any event, it was a fun exercise that's been well-received.
 

"I'm the new dean.  My name's Mr. Webb."

"Oh yeah, I forgot they hired a new one after we chased off Mr. Dipshit."

"Yeah, that's me."

"They got you playing truant officer now?  Even Dipshit wasn't an errand boy."

"You ready to cut the Brando act so we can talk?"

"Who's Brando?"

"A movie star," I replied. "Word is you're becoming quite a movie star, too." I got the reaction I was looking for.  He was paler than an Osmond family reunion.

"Y-you don't make any sense. Go hassle somebody else.  I'll be back in school tomorrow."

"Get out of bed kid," I instructed him.

"Fuck you," he spat.

"You could get in trouble for talking that way."

"What are you going to do? Suspend me?"

"Yeah, you got a point." I said ripping the covers off him.  I couldn't believe my eyes and couldn't hold back a laugh.  He was dressed in a bright red baby doll nightie, with black thigh high stockings, and the highest pair of CFM pumps I'd seen outside of Vegas.

"You want to explain this?"

"I'm not telling you anything."

The third story in the book is Perfect and it was first published in the anthology Lipstick for Her Leather. It doesn't quite fit as neatly as the theme as the other two, but it's about a college freshman who finds the perfect girlfriend.  She thinks he's perfect too.  The only question is "perfect for what?"

"You know," she said gazing into my eyes, "you're like the perfect size for a guy."

"What does that even mean?" I asked.

"Well, I don't think I'd want to date anybody shorter than me and I've never cared for guys who are so tall that I feel like I need a step ladder just to kiss them."

"That's cool," I replied trying to sound nonchalant, but just the thought that an actual female didn't find my skinny five-foot-eight frame repulsive was alright with me.

"Weight too," she said. "There's not an ounce of fat on you. I can tell you work out."

"Three times a week," I lied. The truth is that working out was so fruitless for me that I never could stick with it.

"Do me a favor and take off your shirt. I want to see something," She said.

"Really? Here?" I asked.

"I won't bite, unless you want me to," she cooed and I was putty. With barely a second thought, I complied and pulled my shirt over my head. She went to her dresser drawer and pulled out a pink plastic tape measure. She used it to measure my stomach, chest, and shoulders before declaring to me, "You are just perfect."

"Thank you," I replied.

"What size shoe do you wear?" she asked.

"Seven," I replied embarrassed. I'm sure you've heard that old story about the size of a man's feet. Well in my case, it was definitely true. She surprised me by smiling and just purring again that I was perfect.