Manuel García writes men as they are: direct, raw, and unadorned. These are stories of virile encounters, not dressed in sentiment but charged with skin, sweat, and the unspoken. In workplaces, bars, trains, chat rooms — desire rises from friction, conflict, and the sudden electricity of a glance too long held. This is not pornography, but masculine eroticism: where men desire men with the force of need and the weight of silence.

The title story, Chat Erotica, begins in the glow of a phone screen. A message typed, hesitated over, and finally sent: Straight boy 39 seeks bisexual friends who have been partying and want to cum in my holes. Behind the blunt words is a man split between fear and hunger, carrying both shame and urgency. The phone rings — insults first, then silence, then another call. Each vibration is a test of courage, a step closer to the crossing of a line that cannot be uncrossed.

He remembers the summer on a deserted Balearic bay, the sun burning his back, the salt drying on his skin. Juan — tanned, calm, confident — asking if he needed a light, then later spreading cream on his shoulders, his thighs, and lower still. The touch, casual at first, lingered until it became something else. The first taste of another man’s cock, hesitant, clumsy, then sure. The first finger pressing into his ass as his own hunger surprised him with its force. The moment when the body admitted what the mouth would never say.

In García’s stories, masculinity is not a mask but a friction that ignites. Every look, every touch, every word unsaid builds into an encounter where power and vulnerability collide. And when the moment comes, it does not ask permission. It takes, it gives, it consumes.

These are tales that leave a mark — like sweat on skin, like the echo of a stranger’s breath in the dark. Desire that arrives uninvited, stays unforgotten, and reminds you that once a man has been taken, he is never the same.