In Sex in Naples, Manuel García strips away sentimentality and dives headfirst into the raw, electric charge between men. These are stories of quiet looks and heavy silences, of friction that burns and bodies that remember. Set in real places, filled with the scent of sweat, cigarettes, and summer air, these encounters don't ask permission - they happen. Rough, unfiltered, urgent: this is not romance. This is desire, when it demands to be lived. In the title story, a long August evening unfolds in the hushed heart of Naples. Andrea, a local, shares drinks and lazy conversation with a Turkish friend - until a chance encounter with a Slovak couple turns the night. Martin is curious, friendly, a little awkward. But there's something in the way he looks, the way he listens - too close, too long. "We didn't mean to eavesdrop," Martin says, smiling as he reaches out his hand. His fingers linger. His girlfriend watches, quiet. And Andrea, without meaning to, feels something shift deep in his belly - slow, like heat rising from stone. There are moments when time bends. When a glance becomes an invitation, and a city like Naples - worn, haunted, alive - opens the door to something dangerous and new. Because sometimes, the night doesn't end when the drinks are empty. Sometimes, it just begins.