Hidden in the Spanish countryside lies an undulating section of heaven on Earth designed for petrolheads….
I’ve been to my fair share of racetracks—from Germany’s fearsome Nürburgring to China’s enormous Shanghai Formula One circuit—but none compare with this. The Ascari Race Resort is like no place I’ve ever been. A private country club for lovers of fast cars, it certainly doesn’t look like any racetrack I’ve seen before.
In fact, it looks more like a Bond villain’s lair. Poking my head through the doorway at the bottom of the three-storey garage built into the side of a hill, I half-expect to see James Bond strapped to a table being tortured by Blofeld.
Looking around the state-of-the-art buildings, well-manicured lawns and beautiful paved courtyard it’s easy to forget that there’s one of the most amazing racetracks in the world as the main attraction. But that’s where this story begins, with one man’s dream to create the ultimate automotive playground.
“Basically, I would like to own a circuit I could play on every day, that’s how it started,” says Klaas Zwart, Ascari owner and millionaire oil tycoon who spends his free time racing Formula One cars. “Every day I get here, I still think it’s a fantastic place and I love it. It’s like walking into heaven when you get to the gates.”
What began as a simple race track quickly became something more. Zwart found suitable land in southern Spain, near the city of Rhonda, and began carving out his dream circuit. Borrowing corners from the world’s best tracks he tied them together to create a circuit equal to the best in the world. Zwart took inspiration from the world’s best, including Australia’s own Mount Panorama, Spa-Francorchamps in Belgium and the mother of all tracks, the Nürburgring Nordschleife.
The circuit measures 5.42 kilometres and features an even split of left- and right-hand corners to give car and driver a balanced workout. There is every type of corner imaginable, from not-quite-flat-out sweeping bends to tight, slow chicanes, plus banked corners, numerous elevation changes as well as three straights.
There is an even split of left- and right-hand corners to give car and driver a balanced workout, borrowing from the best circuits in the world
There are no grandstands or billboards because care was taken to ensure that the track blends into the landscape in a design that is as kind to the environment as a racetrack can be. Trees that blocked the path of the track layout were relocated and new trees planted around the facility.
The circuit even achieves the second-highest safety rating available from the FIA, international motor racing’s governing body, meaning anything up to GP2, F1’s feeder category, can officially race at Ascari. Despite building such a great track Zwart says he will never open the track to public races, but he doesn’t want to keep Ascari purely for himself, either.
So the savvy businessman created a sideline business to cater to equally rich petrolheads. Just like a private golf course, if you can afford the membership fees you can access the track and facilities to play at your leisure.
It doesn’t come cheap, though. An annual membership costs $26,000 and includes 15 days on the track and use of the facilities. Those chasing an extended experience can invest in an alternate option.
A premium-card holder is entitled to a 25-year membership, 50 track days, personalised race suit and helmet, access to private functions and discounts off racing cars. But (and it’s a big but) it costs $200,000 to join and $13,500 per year.
This ticket, as you can image, reserves access to primarily only the rich and famous, with MotoGP superstar Valentino Rossi, Jamiroquai frontman Jay Kay and Top Gear host Jeremy Clarkson among the lucky few. Naturally facilities around the track are designed to the highest standards to match the steep membership price.
Members include MotoGP superstar Valentino Rossi, Jamiroquai fontman Jay Kay and Top Gear host Jeremy Clarkson
Tucked in alongside the track are state-of-the-art pit boxes for teams to work on the cars and behind the circuit is a picture courtyard with a 200-year-old oak tree at its centre. On the other side of the courtyard is a three-storey car park built to accommodate more than 400 standard-sized cars. The car park also features a world-class workshop where race cars can be maintained to the highest standard.
Thrillingly, one level of the car park is devoted to Zwart’s personal collection of exotic machinery, which includes a 2004 Jaguar R5 F1 car, three examples of Ferrari’s 1995 F1 racer, one 1997 Benetton F1 racer and two 2001 Arrows three-seater F1 cars. And these cars aren’t stored here simply for show either, as Zwart and Ascari members often host their own private races at the track. Sounds just like the type of hobby James Bond would have…
|IF you were told that you could lose substantial weight if you to tuck into bacon and eggs for breakfast every morning, you’d probably laugh. I know I did. But something about the prospect of the so-called “bacon diet” had an undeniable appeal. Intrigued, and tired of attempting exercise-based weight-loss regimens that never really stuck (or offered those all-important initial weight-loss motivators), I was determined to give it a go.
As a guy with a bigger frame, I was able to somewhat mask my 110kg weight, but when it got to the point where I had to lean forward to see my dick while taking a piss, I knew no amount of weight masking was a substitute for the realisation that the gut had to be forced to withdraw.
The official name of the bacon diet is the ketogenic diet, which is a fancy phrase that expands to “avoid carbohydrates and stick to high-fat foods”. The diet also dissuades the intake of natural sugars, such as found in fruit, and starchy, below-ground vegetables. In this respect, it’s something of a high-maintenance diet.
My independent research and discussions with those who had attempted the ketogenic diet warned that I should anticipate certain side effects. Some people reported flu-like symptoms—headaches, runny noses and scratchy throats—in the first 24-48 hours while the body is purged of all remaining carbohydrates. I experienced these side effects in isolation, albeit not in the first 24 hours, as the recommended counteraction for these symptoms is to increase your water intake.
Water intake is likely the best backhanded benefit of the diet—particularly in the first two weeks—as my perpetual feeling of dehydration made me increase my water intake from three-to-four glasses a day to three-to-four litres. As a trickle-on effect, I also needed to urinate more frequently, but the presence of clear urine suggested that my body was adequately hydrated, despite an initial feeling of cottonmouth. The odd, asparagus-like odour of my urine, thankfully, cleared up after the first 48 hours. Ketosis was in full effect.
Granted, the first month of the diet was spent completely booze-free, which undoubtedly added to the impressive weight-loss results. Over the course of the rest of the alcohol-free first month, I dropped to 99kg. The general consensus around the Penthouse office was, “Damn, you’re still losing weight!” and that I had more energy than Charlie Sheen on a suitcase of blow.
When alcohol was thrown back into the mix during the second month of the diet, I drank the level of quantities befitting a writer, but avoided carb-heavy alcohol, such as beer. Straight, clear spirits such as vodka and gin are your best bet and, if you’re not too keen on straight alcohol, mix them with diet or light soft drinks—or soda or tonic water—which tend to have next-to-no carbs.
Throughout the second month of The Bacon Diet, I lost a further two kilograms. Considering this loss came with no exercise and involved more than a healthy intake of alcohol, I’m calling that a win. I found myself craving chocolate more than chips, beer or any number of carb-heavy food items, and found that cocoa-rich cooking chocolate was an acceptable substitute (in limited intake) to combat the cravings.
When I visited my GP at the end of the two months, she was surprised to hear that I had more energy—apparently low-carb diets can drain energy for some, but the opposite was true for me throughout the course of the experiment. In fact, as an added serendipitous effect, my blood pressure was actually lower than it had been in previous years.
Considering this diet was originally used to combat epileptic seizures and high-blood-pressure patients, this comes as little surprise. As far as weight-loss regimes go, it doesn’t get much better (or faster) than the ketogenic diet. But the most important thing is my gut is gone, and my dick is finally back in sight. I’m no GP, so I strongly advise you to consult with your doctor or a nutritionist before commencing any drastic change of diet.
What I have always possessed though is a natural desire to
explore, experiment and try new things. That personality trait combined with a
natural sexual energy means I am always open to trying new things and
exploring my inner sacred goddess.
So its no surprise that when I hear about something I
haven’t tried before I have an immediate instinct to delve into it.
Even the escort industry was something I fell into based
purely on curiousity. I didn’t need to do it, I didn’t need the money, I wasn’t
messed up on drugs or any addiction, I wasn’t channelling an abusive childhood
into adult life, I was simply told one night at a party that men would pay very
top dollar for high end escorts and I wanted to see if it was true.
Scarlet was born.
So when I received a pornographic email in my inbox not long
ago I was shocked, followed by slightly repulsed and then finally in awe of
what the hot little blonde porn star was doing in it. It appeared to me she was
urinating all over the couch she was masturbating on and she seemed to be
enjoying it as if she was cumming.
I didn’t understand it, there was fluid going everywhere and she
was squealing with pleasure. This was not your usual cum shot and I after
watching it over and over again, sometimes gasping at what I was seeing,
decided I needed to know what was going on.
My friend who was the sender of the email was the first on
my call list.
“What on earth is happening to that girl? Is she weeing?” My
voice was so high pitched with excitement and curiosity he told me to take a deep breathe and repeat the question.
“But what is it?? How did she do that? Is that normal? Did
she wet her self?”
His response was simple and would ensure endless nights of reseaching lay ahead for inquisitive little Scarlet.
“Its called squirting!”
Forever curious and wanting to know why only some women do
this and some don’t, I began to research. No stone was left unturned. I
personally violated numerous forums with my annoying in depth questions and
eventually I had a client I was willing to let try over and over again on me
until I could master the task of squirting.
Lets look at what I believe are the key factors in making a
girl squirt –
She must first and foremost be relaxed! Her blood must be
flowing through the whole body and she must of consumed enough sugar. Now
please don’t sue me, I am not a qualified squirter but I am passing on what I
have found to work for me at least.
The next thing is very important. Your partner must know
what he is doing. It’s all in the movement and pressure on the G Spot, it needs
to be fast and hard whether it’s his finger or his penis.
Lastly you need patience, this took me over a month and lots
of sessions with my squirting buddy to conquer it. I spent many a night upside
down, in numerous positions, at times thinking I was going to wet myself, other
times screaming “its happening im squirting” only to get given the look “No
your not Scarlet you can’t fake a squirt!”
Could it be possible I wouldn’t master it? Was it a lie that
all women could squirt.? Was I not the perfect little Stepford I thought I was?
You most certainly are Scarlet said the voice inside my head
after I finally conquered it nearly a month later.
The night I lost my squirting virginity was a night I will
never forget. Upside down on the bed for over an hour, his hand going a million
miles an hour as he smashed my g spot, I had managed to slide onto the floor
next to the bed and was positioned with my legs in the air in an open scissor position while
he was above me ever so professionally trying to get the girl to squirt.
And just when I stopped thinking of squirting for half a
second, it happened.
With no word of exaggeration fluid starting bucketing from
me, it went directly up in the air right in front of his vision for his perusal
then I watched as it came directly back down towards me, it was heading
straight towards my face.
Without a moment to move, after all I was firstly upside
down and secondly in shock that it actually happened, I then proceeded to squirt on my own face.
At first he laughed and exclaimed “you squirted on your own
face!” Slightly offended he laughed at me I quickly licked my lips and was
pleasantly surprised to taste the sweetest aroma of sugar syrup I had ever
tasted. Jokes on him I thought –it was like dipping my own head into a jar of sugar coated lollies at the Royal Show.
So now that you know how it officially begun I would like to
tell you about a recent experience. Let me also tell you that I cannot do it on
tap, meaning it still remains something can only
be done with all the right ingredients.
Well last week my client had the mixing bowl ready and not
only did he make me squirt from his cock but he made me squirt over and over
Prior to our booking he had a few requirements- One was a naughty little criminal
outfit and the other was the porn star experience. At no time did he mention
squirting and even if he did I couldn’t promise him I could do it. What I could
promise was the hottest little criminal outfit in town with striped fabric and
a matching hat and cut out bust so my breasts were clearly exposed for his
pleasure. The black thigh high fishnets were stay-ups so he didn’t have to rip
open the crotch to get to my pussy. He was a good looking, charming blue eyed
stallion ready to throw me around for the next few hours.
His name was Cristian and the moment I saw him and he pulled me in for the most
soft sweetest kiss, I knew it was going to be all my pleasure.
The porn star experience is my favourite, it means lots of
deep throat, lots of positions and the best form of sexercise in town!
But Cristian and I got more then we bargained for this
So half way through our porn session, whilst nicely
positioned on top of him and grinding his big, hard cock inside me, I felt it
coming. The best part about squirting is once you have experienced it you know
when it’s going to happen and you can help manipulate your body to do it. When
I felt this sensation brewing inside of me I looked directly into his eyes and
mouthed the words “I’m going to squirt!”
He’s eyes lightened up and he mouthed back “Squirt for me!”
It takes a decent size cock to make a girl squirt and it
needs to be smashing the g spot at the right speed to actually pass that line.
So we kept the same momentum up and as I felt my eyes roll back and back arch I
lifted off him and he grabbed my hips and we watched as I squirted sweet sugar
all over him.
I had to go again so I jumped back on his cock and started grinding
again and whispered to him “I want to squirt again.”
He whispered back “Well then do it and this time on my face!”
Little moments in sex like this deeply arouse me. I lose
myself in the moment, I don’t care what I look like, what I’m doing and I got so
turned on by his comment I let go of any insecurities and let my body do
exactly what came naturally.
It didn’t take long, minutes perhaps if not less? This time
when I knew I was going to squirt I told him and he lifted me off his cock and
straight onto his face. I wanted to enjoy the sweet taste with him so I leaned
down to pash it from his mouth.
As we repeated this over and over again, I thought to myself seriously is this a job? Has Scarlet’s
curiousity taken her from watching a pornographic movie, to google searching to
getting paid to squirt on a sexy mans face while I pashed it off. Society can
judge but I wasn’t listening as I squirted 7 times over from the perfect
thrusts of Cristians cock inside my body.
The criminal outfit was destroyed, the bed sheets were
drenched and after we finished with the porn star cum shot we agreed that
squirting is one of the most erotic sexual skills to experience for both parties.
I am a proud to say I have mastered squirting, just like all
women should know how to cook, all women should know how to squirt. In both
cases the end result is a delicious sweet tasting meal that you and your
partner can indulge in.
Now im off to bake a cake cause that’s what us Stepford Wives do – provide good food and good sex! Until next time…
The Stepford Wives
Forget the sports car, the best way to beat mid-life blues is with boxing gloves
By John Birmingham
The guy was a lawyer, and a pretty successful one. I’d known him in a passing fashion 20 years earlier, when we’d both set our sights on the same woman. He’d won, but that was okay; she deserved better than me anyway. He was still with her and they had a whole tribe of kids. It’d worked out well. He was happy, and yet…
And yet one of the purest joys of his middle-age existence wasn’t his beautiful wife or well-adjusted children. And it certainly wasn’t his work. It was boxing. At some point since we’d been rivals, and he’d won the girl and lived the good life, the bloke had taken to wrapping his fists in long, sweat-stained pieces of cotton, climbing into a ring and pounding the putty out of whoever cared to take him on.
There is something admirable about an old bull climbing into the ring for one last shot at the title…
Of course, that meant he’d suffered his own share of damage. Headshots, crunching hits to the ribcage, awful shuddering blows in the gut that drove the breath from his body and left him feeling as though he might never stand up and draw another mouthful of sweet air into his lungs again. He’d recently been injured in a manner that was especially bad for a lawyer—breaking his wrist.
His wife didn’t understand. They never do. But I did, and you might, too. When you’ve lived long enough, you accumulate sufficient hard knocks and scar tissue; you swallow any number of defeats, large and small, rhetorical, personal, political and professional. You learn, unless you are a fool, that you do not have the power in your hands to reshape the world by force alone. Swing all you want at your foes and they will dodge and weave and more often than not mock you for your efforts.
But the older you get, it seems, the sweeter it is to take that upper cut at life anyway. Be it literal or figurative. I can only imagine this accounts for the large number of men who reach their 40s, usually after a decade or so of enforced lassitude and slump-shouldered toil, only to find themselves drawn into extreme sports—or at least ones that are extreme for their creaking bones and dulled reflexes.
It’s a truism that many sports cars and high-performance motorcycles are owned by middle-age men looking to borrow some of the oomph inherent in their engineering, but I’d be willing to bet that many more are drawn back to the playing fields of their youth—or the boxing rings and dojo mats. For one thing, it’s cheaper and less likely to be openly ridiculed by the gentle lady folk. More often, their response will be blank-eyed puzzlement.
But as someone who returned to a martial art in mid-life, I totally understand why my lawyer acquaintance couldn’t wait to get the plaster off his wrist and the gloves back on, to push himself in exactly the same hazardous fashion that had led to his embarrassment and virtual crippling not long before.
There’s just something really pure and simple about testing yourself physically. And few things challenge a male like fighting—even if the war is entirely constrained by strict rules, padding and a hard-earned understanding that, unlike a 20-year-old, you are not, in fact, immortal.
For just a few minutes, perhaps once or twice a week, the tedious demands of grown-up life fall away and all that matters is hitting and being hit, absorbing the attack and lashing out in revenge. Manning up in the most primal way possible.
I suspect my lawyer friend had some trouble convincing his wife to let him get back in the ring after his last injury. Old bones don’t heal quickly or particularly well, and a bread-earner has responsibilities beyond gratifying his own ego. But the modern world doesn’t make it easy for a man. Not like it used to.
And while there’s something slightly absurd about a fat, balding buffoon reinforcing his sense of self-worth with an imported sports car, there’s also something admirable about an old bull climbing into the ring or pulling on the rugby boots for one last shot at the title. To rage, rage against the dying of the light.
TV chefs pour wine into cooking pots all the time. But does alcohol improve the average dinner recipe? Is it a waste of good plonk or a secret ingredient that makes a good meat meal great?
By Ben Canaider Continue reading “Last Call: Cooking with booze” »