In these raw, unvarnished stories of male desire, Manuel García writes about real men—flesh-and-blood, virile, sometimes rough, sometimes silent. Men who don’t talk about their feelings, but speak through their bodies. Men who take, who want, who resist—and give in. Set in sun-drenched towns, cramped apartments, anonymous hotel rooms, and distant islands, these encounters are charged with power, need, and the primal rhythm of skin on skin.
The title story, Exotic Pleasures, follows a Parisian man chasing more than heat in the Caribbean. Two strangers—one shy, uniformed, and yearning; the other dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, and burning with his own unspoken fantasy—pull him into a world where eroticism rises from tension, difference, and the dangerous thrill of what might happen next.
Gilbert met me at the airport, hand warm, grip unsure. In the car, my fingers brushed his thigh—he flinched, but didn’t move away.
Later, in his modest flat, he offered me a drink while my towel barely held. His eyes didn’t lie.
“How do you find me?” he asked.
“Appetizing,” I answered.
The rest didn’t need words.
García’s writing smells of sweat and ocean salt, tastes of longing and bravado. His men don’t fall into bed—they collide. With tension, with power, with a hunger too old to name.
Desire here is a slow burn. And when it ignites, it leaves nothing untouched.
