In Prison Guard, Manuel García strips gay eroticism to its muscular core. These stories are about real men—solid, weathered, often silent. They move through spaces where tension hums beneath the surface: locker rooms, prison corridors, park benches at night. Here, desire doesn’t ask—it challenges, brushes up hard against power, silence, and instinct. No sentiment. No pretense. Just bodies, will, and the unsaid.
The title story unfolds on the edge of danger and control. Leroy, a 55-year-old prison guard with a body like carved obsidian, meets the narrator at a university party. What begins as curiosity about prison life and “men who give themselves” turns into something quieter, darker, and more loaded: a walk through a park at night, no touch, just questions. Tension thick enough to taste.
“How do you feel,” he asked, his voice steady in the dark, “sitting alone in a park with a black man you barely know?”
I looked at him.
“I feel like I want you to touch me.”
He didn’t. Not yet.
He just smiled, and said: “Tomorrow. Nature reserve. Be ready.”
García writes with the weight of sweat, stubble, and breath. Prison Guard is not a book about sex—it’s about the slow ignition before the first move. The beat before surrender. The pull between fear and craving.
Because sometimes the most erotic thing a man can do… is wait.
