My book is out.

My erotic novel has just been released this week. This is the blurb. It is available in ebook and paperback.

 

If you are on Twitter please find me and rt for a signed copy. 5 lucky winners.

 

The Wanting is an intimate account of Serena and Teddy’s sexual awakening. They undeniably have a magnetic pull and connection that leads them to each other. It is an erotic tale of relationships and their internal struggles as told through dialogue with themselves. One night, Serena and Teddy are out at a bar and they both meet and fall for another person. Serena meets Ben, an attractive eBook writer and Teddy meets Melina, a sexually charged school teacher. The story that unfurls, is a roller coaster ride of two erotic journeys. Questions arise…Are two people meant to be together? What is serendipity? Do soulmates exist? The Wanting is a book about the confusion between sex and love. It is a modern romance into the mysterious world of sex and the power it holds over our minds.

The Wanting by Christina Strigas (a book excerpt)

My book is in our https://museithotpublishing.com estore. Here’s the excerpt:

Who was that girl Miss Moss was talking to five years ago? Every time I wanted to ask Miss Moss about her, something stopped me; my shyness? No. It was probably the ridiculous idea of pining over some girl I’d seen for a mere few seconds, and felt like an idiot to ask about her. Miss Moss would probably look at me as if to say, Are you serious? It took you five years to ask? Besides, I did have a few girlfriends during these past five years, so to ask about some other woman—someone I’d caught only a glimpse of—would have seemed so preposterous.

I’d forgotten about her for a while, until recently. I guess the lack of meeting anyone worthwhile always brought me back to her, that beautiful girl who had taken my breath away. I’d never looked at a girl like that before. In those few seconds, I saw the possibilities but did nothing about it. Heat enveloped my body the moment my gaze met hers, this insatiable thirst to have her and to feel her close to me.

I’ve played out several scenarios in my head on how that could have actually happened:

Scenario Number One:

“Excuse me for interrupting, but can I ask you a question?”

She looks at me and responds, “Sure.” Then she looks at Miss Moss and says, “Excuse me, will you?”

Miss Moss nods.

“Yes?” her lovely voice sings to me.

“I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you are. What’s your name?” She would be Aphrodite, or Belinda, or Cassandra, or Samantha or…

“Jasmine.”

“I’m Teddy. Can I have your number? I would love to take you out on a date.”

She gives me a dazzling smile and recites her phone number. I memorize it. No need to write it down. No need to type it into my phone. It would be engraved on my heart forever. “Don’t you want to write it down?”

“I have a great memory.”

She grins and then excuses herself to go back to her conversation with Miss Moss, who is standing by calmly.

Scenario Number Two:

She grabs my arm. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else,” she says with a smile.

“I can be anyone you want me to be,” I reply, smiling back.

She laughs, stepping away from Miss Moss, who seems to understand the seriousness of this first meeting and leaves us alone.

All the sounds of the day disappear as I look into her light violet eyes and study her cute button nose and full lower lip. Her brown hair blows wildly in the wind, and she has no reply. She stares at me and then asks, “Did you go to this high school?”

“No, I’m a teacher here. Actually, it’s my first day.”

“Oh! That’s great.”

“What’s your name?”

“Naomi,” she says in a sexy voice. “You?”

“I’m Theodore, but everyone calls me Teddy.”

Her gaze shifts slowly to give my body a thorough look-over. I try to make out the image of a woman’s profile on her grey shirt. Naomi’s leggings outline the shape of her legs. Her heavy eyeliner adds to her beauty, and my thought is lost in hers. My eyes travel from top to bottom. She’s wearing tan-colour booties. Her outfit is well coordinated.

“Can I call you sometime?” I ask.

Of course, the scenario ends with me memorizing her number, but even in this one, I still have no clue why she was at that spot at that precise moment.

Scenario Number Three:

As I stop walking, she stops talking. My smile reaches her and she reciprocates. I bravely walk up to her. Miss Moss remains still, glancing from me to her.

“Hi,” I say to Miss Moss, not remembering her name. I continue smiling at the girl.

“You’re a new teacher here, aren’t you?” Miss Moss asks. “I saw you at the staff meeting, but we haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Arianne.”

“I’m Theodore Neros.”

Throughout this exchange, she remains quiet.

Miss Moss looks at both of us again. “Theodore, this is Katrina, your soul mate.” Arianne smiles. “I have to go,” she says to Katrina, and then whispers something in her ear.

I turn to Katrina and say, “Hi.”

“Hi,” she replies in a sweet voice. “What is she talking about? Soul mate…? Where did she get that idea?”

“I have no clue, but can I have your number so we can find out?” I quickly ask. She looks at me for a split second, and I don’t know if she’ll say yes or no, so I add, “I would love to take you out on a date.”

She looks shy, and then responds, “Okay.”

Pulling out a piece of paper and a pen from her purse, she writes it down before I can memorize it. I take it and hold on to it tightly.

“I have to catch my bus,” she says and begins to quickly walk away.

“I’ll call you,” I shout after her, and we wave good-bye to each other.

And that is the beginning of the affair.

If

If the water on the windowsill

could be your molecules

they would give me a paper

to smell

a pen to place safely away

near my utensils

think of me when it rains

how the droplets

become you and me

falling from the sky

like bullets on a battlefield

like trees in the rainforest

sometimes still

most times turbulent

aged and chopped

preserved and honoured.
From “Love & Vodka”

All my books are available at all on-line bookstores, Amazon, Barnes & Nobles, etc. Thank you for reading & your support.💞


💙💙💙

Goodreads

https://www.goodreads.com/author/dashboard

 

Hello everyone,

If you’ve read any of my books, I would appreciate a review on Goodreads and Amazon. Click on the link above to see what I’m reading and my reviews.  I have tried for the past few days to add the Goodreads widget to my blog, but I feel so lost in cyberspace, not even youtube tutorials help, so I suppose it’s not meant to be. However, I feel that Goodreads is such a useful social media site for writers and readers to share their works and opinions on books.

I am always honest in my reviews and don’t believe in fake praise.

I have received some invitations to review some poetry books from authors I know, and I am going to be posting some of them up on my blog soon.  If anyone is interested I will consider reviewing some poetry books if you want to email me at christinastrigasauthor@gmail.com

To review novels, you can email me and we can discuss.

Looking forward to hearing from you.

All my best,

Chrissy

 

Where I lay my nest

Along the shores of my bank,

I spotted this seashell; it was

the color of my childhood.

In a tiny plastic bag, knotted twice,

I was given ink-colored rocks

along with a note,

written by his aunt,

Greek tiny writing.

 

These rocks are from Voulagmeni Beach. For you with love,

so you could always have a part of Greece with you. 

Your aunt, Tasia. 

 

I did a DIY and recycled

glass lime pies

cute decorative bowls

I could not throw away,

along with Petite Maman jam jars.

Covered the note under them

like a lost treasure.

 

Who will find it next?

 

The dead

have so much more to say

after their death.

Tiny handwritten notes,

photos from 1956, first passport

upon entering Canada,

more recipes,

my own cards with no dates.

 

It was my father’s birthday yesterday,

he would have been 76.

I said Happy Birthday to you,

to the ice cold day, parked in

front of the cemetery on my way

to Starbucks.

I lay my nest in all the places

where I lived.

On Stuart Street, 1974,

running across the street

to elementary school

while the bell rang.

Grade four, suburbia nightmare,

large backyards

and poker parties.

I lay my nest

where my children are

my husband’s hand

my dead father

my mother’s midnight panic attacks

my brother’s sweet soul,

while

everyone else

begins and ends my days

with artful quotes

maniacal attacks,

while everyone begins to think

they are just a character in my next

novel. The truth is

no one exists

for that long

except characters.

Lay my nest within

for soon enough

everyone will be gone.

 

 

 

 

 

Everybody loves my baby

Once you told me keep on running baby

break on through

with your words, your drive, your sexy

energy. Once you told me to stay,

don’t leave, come back from the dead,

from the people you never meet. Here I am

in all my vulnerability; everyone loves you baby,

but no one knows you. I can hold

your hair back while you let out your fears

all over the toilet. Tell me your favorite poem,

lay back and listen to the words while I whisper

them in your ear. Destroy the times of the day

with your lips. Open all my closed doors and

dig deep because the treasure is waiting. Hoping.

Caring. Singing. Loving,

No one can be as patient as I am. Flocking to

concerts, art shows, literary festivals, and

still you are not in the crowd with me. Poetry is

the destruction and motivation of our lives. Breaking

me up inside, spreading my legs wide for you,

salt sea baths under water.

It is a short song, a long sigh

a poetry book in the making

with no buyers. Who buys poetry books

anymore? It is a short poem

with tons of nuances, spices

of love to ignite some recipe

within you. I check up on nothing.

Just to see your name and how

everyone loves you. You wait for her

I wait for him. Maybe the crowd

will disappear, as it eventually does.

Watching Anna Karenina

When that empty breeze
brings upon memories
of how your kisses tasted so sweet
your arms around my neck
gently lifting me
the white love surrounding
us on the green grass
and how I bit your lip
in ecstasy
and teased you
until the fights turned
into mad sex
meeting lovers in corridors
behind screens
and how love stands alone
blocks cages and church icons
as anger is the new breed
of communication
while you look down my blouse
hard for me
wanting all of me
my insides filled with only you
if I could give you more of me
I would
but I am stuck
somewhere between who I was
and who I want to be
for I am on that unpredictable wave
forecast is fluctuating
my insides are tortured
with common folk
but your eyes
oh those fucking eyes
how they see through every piece
of me
that I toss and shed off
like my clothes
naked.

You can undress me
without a touch
love me
until we speak no more
of this
or silence me
with no words
that make me search for my own.

It is how you pursue me
without wanting to
battling yourself
me
Us
Them
Him
Her.

It is the death of us that preoccupies my mind rather than the birth.
One can die from a broken heart
and princesses and princes
are not immune
to clutching their heart
in torment.
No one can truly
forgive
betrayal.

I watch your strong back
as I leave you
no other choice
but to say goodbye
to the woman you
kissed on that fall day
and who loved you
with all her breath.

Needs

Words need an exit
for writers.
Readers need
an entrance.
Some poems are meant
to be read aloud
lying naked in bed
drinking up each other’s
words.
Inhaling and exhaling words
skipping meals
poets are meant to look
into each other’s eyes
with no sunglasses
no lies.

Eliminate your disguise
and melt with me
onto the sheets
disappear on a break
run from the calls.
Sleeping in another galaxy.
Montreal is perfect
for summer acts
of love
and Art
Poetry
Music
Now I’ve emptied out my mind
replaced it with your poses.
You could have been
a model
but really
I could not care less
if your eyes were purple
For it is your one thousand year
old soul that speaks
to me
and recognizes our memories.
It could not have been
one mere lifetime
But many.
So many I refuse to breathe.
Disappearing behind
my typewriter
to recall
and write my stories.