These stories are not fantasies. They are collisions—of bodies, silences, glances. Manuel García writes men the way they are: hard-edged, flesh-and-bone, built from routine and grit. His world smells of sweat, old cologne, warm skin. In these pages, desire doesn’t ask. It arrives—sudden, unsentimental, and charged with need.

In the title story, Sex with the Doctor, a winter flu leaves a man weakened, restless, and under examination. The doctor is older, calm, professional—too experienced not to notice what’s rising between them. On the table, naked under fluorescent light, the patient feels the first touch not as medicine, but as invitation.

The doctor presses a gloved hand to his abdomen, then lower. The fingers are clinical, deliberate—until they’re not. When the lube cools his skin and the first finger slides in, something breaks open. Shame and arousal coil together. He stays still, exposed, his cock swelling as the doctor pushes deeper. No words now, only breath. A second finger. Then three. Then release—unexpected, explosive. Not a fantasy, but a body’s truth surfacing at last.

García writes with heat and weight, never flinching.

Because some men don't whisper their desires. They let them happen.