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.
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