What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
The ongoing series of Facebook and X posts of massive crowds of unwashed tourists queueing for miles at Suvarnabhumi is enough to give any Bangkok local convulsions. It’s like watching a horror movie that doesn’t end. In tandem with the nightmare of hordes of idiots invading my beloved home is an alarming increase in the number of white Western clams inserting themselves into gogo bars and redlight districts—a thing both horrific and ridiculous (horriculous for short, copyright BKK7). The common thread to my redlight week can only be described as white skank overload. But nothing eases one’s mind like a gogo stage packed with hot Thai hotties.
Sunday I did an accidental Pong. I went out for dinner and ran into a fellow pongmonger, and we got to talking about the dilapidate state of our fave redlight and before I knew it, two hours had passed. So I decided to have a Leo on Soi 1 and then stopped in to Miami Vice—again—to say hello to my exXXX Lounge galpals.
The early hours of the Night Market (18.00-20.00) are blissful. The ping pong show’s speakers are dialed down to 3 and the beer garden is mostly families and couples gnawing on sticks of grilled meat. I saw a really handsome American with a whale of a chunky monkey and wondered if she was thin when they met and just let herself go, or if he reeled her in fat. Decent looking dudes who chase flab do so oout of low confidence. Either that or he didn’t have the balls to ask out a hot girl. In any case, he deserves what he got. 10 minutes later I saw a duplicate couple, though she clearly fattened up post-wedding ring. She was “don’t give a fuck” fat, like she started down that road and decided to take it as far as she could. The due stopped parallel to the entrance to K1 and waited for her fat ass to catch up, then walked past without looking in, as if to say “No bitch, you will not use this to accuse me of something later.”
At the table next to mine, a chubby middle-aged Thai lady sat down and recorded a TikTok with a plate of durian. Moments later, her male companion—an American in his late 60s/early 70s sat down with a glass of Chang. I like to see couples like that. He’s too old for a hot piece, and she’ll never do better financially than this pensioner. They’re good for each other. They talk. They connect, maybe not physically but neither of them needs that at this point in their march to the grave. They have each other and that’s a beautiful thing. I’ve already resigned myself to dying alone in a beachside Pattaya condo, but if I manage to snag a long-term consort in my sunset years, that’ll just be icing on the cake that is the dream of this Thailand life. God knows I can’t keep up this harem routine much longer. My junk’s literally getting worn-down.
At 19.20 an old ugly bald farang and a young Thai man took a table in the beer garden. The Thai guy spoke to the Cang beer lady for a bit and then walked off to the food court. Two minutes later the farang followed, leaving his backpack on the tabletop. Now, I’m sure he just did it to save the spot, but in a post-9/11 world, you do not abandon a backpack in a crowded public place. My heart rate doubled and I started looking for the old farang, casually glancing back at the pack. No one else seemed to take notice or care. Just when I decided to vamoose, the old coot returned with meat sticks. And sure, 999 times out of a thousand it’s just some idiot using his bag to hold a table but fucking hell, what a collection of brainless sheep are the public at large? Nobody even noticed or cared. The stupid populace seemingly have no situational awareness.
On Tuesday I hoofed it over to the Skyview Hotel’s cigar lounge at 14.00, forgetting that it didn’t open till 18.00. Trying to salvage something from the wasted trip, I popped into Easyburger for a double West Coast Burger (their In-N-Out burger imitator) for 340b + VAT and a Dr. Easy soda—hand made with syrup and club soda. The bun was simple, sensible, and tasty. Thick pickles, two slices of American cheese, lettuce, grilled onions, mustard, thousand island spread. It was closer in texture and appearance to a Shake Shack burger but the ingredients copied a Double-Double “animal” style, sans tomato. The patties were so wide they stuck more than halfway out of the bun. The flavor was an exact 50-50 hybrid of Shake Shack and In-N-Out, and was half as good as both.
Then I schlepped home, had two CBD colas, got a harem bj, and then Ponged in a state of delirium. I smoked a Java mint with a black nyet’ro outside K2. Mila came by and gave me a gentle smack. She changed her hair from pink to dirty purple (a day later it would change again to sandy blonde). I can’t say I approved. And with her recent lip filler injection, she just hasn’t looked right to me. I hate when Thai girls fuck with their faces. They look perfect the way they popped out their mamas. Surgery just fucks things up.
All 3 Kings were insane by half 9 on Tuesday. And no wonder. The absolute best collection of smoking hot girls are divided amongst all their venues. Several newbodies in K corner made my loins enflamed. Virgin absolutely destroyed on Tuesday. Best and Nat came over for a compulsory tequila. I obliged because I’m a fucking pimp daddy. The stage was positively electric with more hot ass for any one man to handle. What separates Patpong from nana and Cowboy is, when you’re in a Patpong gogo, you’re in it. And by that I mean, the night has taken you over and you’re on that ride. Cunts, millennials, and cowards hit the eject button and bail out of their sheer inability to handle the wave. But true mongers know there’s no comparison to a Pong night out. It’s like that scene from “From Dusk Til Dawn.” Sure, you might get devoured by a she-vampire, but that’s what you signed up for when you entered the Pong. It’s why so many pantywastes won’t go there. And thank fuck they don’t. Patpong isn’t for douches or weaklings. It’s for legit cuntpunters and that excludes 90% of men on the planet. The majority of so-called Bangkok nightlife personalities are too soft for Patpong. They deride the redlight (until a Patpong bar hires them to do their social—then suddenly their tune changes) because their sad vaginas prevent them from ponging properly. They’re cunts.
On Wednesday I found myself back in the Pong, but not fir redlight reasons. ‘Twas my number 2 harem girl’s birthday so I got her a knock-off Chanel purse from the Night Market. And sure, I swung through a coupla gogos. I mean, it would’ve been rude not to.
K1 had the midweek chubby crew on the pole, with just one insanely hot girl in each rotation. I didn’t know who to feel sorry for—the fatties who’d get no ladydrinks or the hotties who were sure to get railed till they walked sideways. K2 was quiet at 20.00, go figure. A few galpals in there gave me a hard time for carrying a gift that was clearly for a female. They know I don’t barfine, and no one in the Pong has laid claim to me, so it’s a big reveal that I went shopping for a girl-gift.
Virgin’s stage was eclectic—Catgirl and Nat, who have both put on weight of late, plus some ex-Radio city girls. One of the superskinnies I’ve had my eye on was there, but I didn’t have time to vet her as I was pressed to get home and shave the ole ballsack before the birthday girl’s arrival. And that’s all she wrote for Wednesday.
On Thursday I woke up famished at 16.00 after a three-hour nap. I tried to stay home but the fridge was empty, and also I ran out of antiperspirant. If it weren’t for that I couldn’t justify leaving the house. But no food plus no deodorant was enough to excuse a Ponging. I had sweet and sour chicken balls and salt-chili wings at Shenanigan’s—two snacks that remind me of the great and gone Paddy Field, a sorely-missed watering hole next to Foodland and a perfect place to daydrink or start off a monger evening. Alas, it will never reopen. Despite its excellent location, it has a dilapidated roof in need of extensive expensive repairs. Plus, that whole building is falling apart. I’m waiting for the car park to collapse and crush the Foodland.
At 19.10 I settled into a chair outside K1, ordered a b-ruskie and lit up a DE Tabak. An ugly, middle-aged white woman gnawing on chicken in the beer garden gave me a dirty look that filled me with joy. I puffed away, looking into her eyes until the realization dawned on her that she’s not in Milwaukee, she’s in Thailand, where smoking in crowds is allowed and men rule. No amount of her disapproval would make a dent in my resolve. Her discontent is not a factor here. She can quite literally go fuck herself. Finally she turned away with chagrined acceptance. I created a cloud of smoke around me, 10 feet in diameter. A Japanese tourist looked over, but instead of disdain, his expression was one of mere curiosity, as if to ask, “Where can I get one of those?” It’s more proof that in the hierarchy of people, Japanese dudes rank above white clams.
A family of farang were shopping in the night market when their two young daughters began plaing with the child of one of the vendors. They chased each other around, squealing with delight. Then the vendor joined in, running back and forth with the kids in a moment of unbridled sinlessness. It was beautiful to witness. My life is filled with vice, harem, poontang, cynicism, and regret. On witnessing pure innocence, I feel like a vampire yearning for the warmth of a sunrise.
A bunch of new wait staff have joined K1 and I had to train them to bring me black ruskies. I always make the same joke with the newbies. When they try to put the bill in my bin, I cover it with my hand and say “Mai ow.” They react the same way every time. First, they freeze, unsure of how to respond. Then I break the tension with a smile and without fail, the girl bursts into fits of giggles. Thais are so easily amused. It’s another taste of the kind of innocence I can only feel vicariously.
A Thai ping pong barker put the hard sell to two naïve blondes who clearly didn’t want to see what she was selling. Watching them wriggle out of her hypnotic pitch was amusing. K Corner was a mix of new pussy and a who’s who of past Seven harem girls. At 20.30 the customers consisted of two farang couples in their 60s, two more in their 30s, a big fat dude, and me, plus a dozen generic Japanese sex tourists. The popular view among Americans is that any white dude who goes to Thailand goes for the purpose of banging prostitutes, but in the gogo, 99% of the guys who barfine are not white. They’re Japanese and Chinese.
On Friday I had a quick harem bj and then jetted to Nana. For the first time ever, security ran a wand over me and found a quasi-weapon that I forgot to leave at home. In Thai, he said “The fuck is that?” “A bottle opener,” I replied in Thai. He turned it over in his hands twice, handed it back and said, “Bottle opener.” I love Thailand.
Stop number 1 was Angelwitch, after Joey D posted pics of new girls in the AW Line group. I did spot one superfine new lady in the first rotation. Plus the DJ played Talking Heads, Def Leppard, The Kinks, and The Romantics. Damn, that’s some good tune slingin’.
For shits and giggles (mostly shits) I stopped in to Billboard, and for the 3rd time in a row could only find a seat at the bath tub, where all girls ranged from slightly too chubby for my taste to way too chubby. Four Indian guys sat tubside, frowning, and didn’t touch their beers for half an hour.
BB is still a spectacle. The girls on the carousel all work out, clearly. They’re very fit, but they’re also pushing 40 and I can’t go for that. The joint was so crowded, it was actually hotter inside than out.
Geisha was 90% full and the bath tub girls were 100% hotskinnies. Two ugly white lesbians sat at the tub’s edge, soaking up the sight. If I had to guess, I’d say they were trying to get horned-up enough to fo down on each other for the thousandth time. An old pervy dude reclined nearby, watching the dykes with a smirk, suggestively sipping from his cocktail straw. I counted half a dozen 9s and three 10s in Geisha. Not bad.
And that was all I could take of NanaP—three gogos and then straight to Cowboy. On my way out the Plaza, I was shocked at how many foreign females infested the place like a plague of cockroaches. Herds of them like cattle milling around the beer garden. I stand by my old theory that it’s caused by the disease of woke 3rd wave feminism currently rotting the brain of every white woman under 50. They’ve come to this bastion of patriarchy and manfun in hopes of ruining it by their presence and dour disapproval. Well, to all those slags who thing they’re taking a giant leap for womankind by tainting the redlight with their gross intrusion, let me say: you’ve failed. All you’re going to get for your effort is an eyeful of dudes liaising with girls hotter than you who put out on the first date and then don’t complain. Suck it, bitches. Men win again.
In Dollhouse, I spotted a nerdy white couple and a solo farang female sucking on a Chang draft while bopping along with the music in her seat. Dennis chatted her up and learned she was Aussie, traveling alone, and just wanted to check out the gogo scene. He mentioned that earlier, a couple of beautiful Mongolian lesbians came in and wanted to short-time a dancer, and a pair of Spanish chicks rolled in who just wanted to party. So maybe my theory about foreign clams trying to ruin the redlight only applies to American bitches.
Rainbow has two rotations of 90% chubsters and 10% smoking hot hotties, like filet mignon among a pile of gristle. An old white dude in glasses, a tan baseball cap and a mask sat sipping a glass of wine. Each time he drank, he pulled down the mask, and then replaced it again like it was 2020. He should’ve just sucked the sweat from the mask. It would’ve been tastier than that hot boxed wine.
From there I meant to go home, but I still had so much cash in my pocket that I ended up in Patpong. The upside of Nana and Cowboy for me is, if I avoid Twister and the exXXXers, I buy no ladydrinks.
A dude next to me in Virgin called a girl over. 30 seconds later, I heard him asking “How long do you go? How much you go?” Talk about cutting to the chase. Out of two rotations, I spotted only four familiar faces. On a Friday. That’s quite a turnover of new tang. Just then someone shouted “Seven!” from the stage and flicked a wai at me. Five familiars.
Following the theme for the week, two fat disgusting white women sauntered in, but they made a beeline for the toilet and then beat a hasty exit five minutes later wearing looks of scorn like badges of feminist honor. K1 was too full. K2 had one open seat. Both had scores of stupid white chicks like human herpes sores on the taint (Brits call it a gooch) of the redlight. All but two gogo dancers were sat with customers. This was at 23.30. Six girls got barfined in one go. K Corner was crazy. I only got a seat because I arrived just as an enormous farang got up to leave. He took up two seats, and a little Japanese guy and me jumped into his spot. The seat was hot from the heat of his ginormous ass. And fuck if a fat blonde farang didn’t wobble in. Cunting white clams need to fuck off already. The Corner was teeming with Japanese/Chinese, and normally I don’t scrutinize these groups too much, but on Friday I took a long look at them and here’s what I realized: similar to Western sex tourists, dudes from Asian countries who come here are, for the most part, goobers/dweebs/nerds/dorks/douchebags. The opposite of a nation’s crème de la crème. They can’t get pussy at home so they hop a flight to TLOS for some store-bought snatch and blow a year’s worth of savings in the process. And I’m not criticizing. It is the way of the world. I’m just saying, if you’re in a Bangkok gogo, you’re not rubbing elbows with Asia’s best and brightest. There are exceptions, of course. I’m speaking in generalizations.
On Saturday my harem bird provided a combo bj/kitchen-bathroom cleaning. I find the ones who can do a variety of tasks stay in the rotation longer. Saturday’s girl has been with me since 2015 because she bobs on a nob as good as she scrubs a tub. Then I was off t’Pong, because I can’t do Nana twice in one week. It’s too corporate. I nave no sense of belonging when I’m there, even when surrounded by past Patpong girls. In Nana, you’re just another shlub. Patpong treats regulars like royalty.
By 19.00 the food court had Disneyland-level crowds—the elderly, plus families with kids of all ages, and nappy-headed backpackers, cringing Americans, and of course, scowling white women. And the gogos weren’t even open yet. It’s like they were practicing to be pissed off come opening time.
I slid into my usual seat at Derby King for a plate of pad thai, then perched at a table outside K2 for a quick cigar, which drove off a farang couple, filling me with warm happiness. For the length of that cigar, I’d pinpoint the percentage of white chicks at 40% of the market/food crowd. Amazing. I can’t shake the feeling that they’re here with a purpose. Like the Catholic missionaries who invaded the Amazon, spreading a religion of feminazism that nobody here wants. I wouldn’t be averse to killing and eating them like so many misguided missionaries before them.
At 19.58 a Chinese guy barfined a girl out of K1, and watching all the farang women in the beer garden watching them walk off together was better than watching a fireworks show. K1 was an absolute ice box. The offstage girls were bundled up in jackets and pashminas. I think per capita, the Kings girls have the largest population of chicks with 6-pack abs. I’m a sucker for flat stomachs. The girls catch me staring. I don’t know how to tell them I’m only interested in checking out them abs. Just when it seemed a 6-packer would get the wrong idea and approach, Offy swooped in and demanded a drink. I smacked her ass for a few, then slipped into K2, which was a furnace compared to the crazy aircon of K1. The only familiar face onstage was Mila, who looked like she hadn’t got enough sleep.
K Corner has a much smaller ration of 6-packs but every time I’m there I fixate on the handful of 10s who’re always on duty. Aircon on point, thankfully.
At 21.30 I landed in Virgin. It was quiet. An oldie from Bada Bing came and sat with me for a spell. She refused a drink, and just wanted to chill with no pressure to be “on.” I often provide that for girls who know they don’t have to perpetrate a girlfriend experience with me. Four 60something farang sat down next to me. One dude and three old hags. The women all diverted their gaze away from the stage. Everyone seemed mad to be there except the dude. In the time it took to drink one Heiney, the place filled to capacity.
At 22.20 I wasn’t drunk or tired, so I circled back to K2’s terrace for another smoke and a black ruskie but the girls misunderstood my order and brought a glass of Singha to my table. The barmaid seemed mortified by her mistake, so I just paid for it to avoid making her feel bad. Half an hour later I stumbled home, pushing my way through crowds of pasty, fat, white she-whales.
FYI, the white chick infestation isn’t just in-person. A new trend of late is shit tons of new followers on X with names like “Lillian” and “Mom252525.” There’s no logical reason for farang women to follow my content. I find it very suspicious. And so I block them. I don’t trust white women and I don’t want them following me. I’m a Bangkok whoremonger, motherfuckers. If you’re a Caucasian clam, I got nothin’ for ya.
In other news, a new massage place has opened up called Lavender Massage. Here’s a link to GoGoHopping’s review of the joint: https://www.gogohopping.com/public-area-review-blogs-bangkok-sukhumvit-soi-22-lavender-massage-review/
Miami Vice gentlemen’s club, that opened two Fridays ago, changed to a gay bar last week. And it makes more sense, since it’s located next to Sala Daeng BTS station and a bunch of other gay businesses. The exXXX Lounge girls who came over for a few days have gone back to Nana Plaza.
The new owner at Cosmos has started renovations that extend from the staircase to the old Black Pagoda to the 4-years-shut bar on the corner across from Paddy Field. Whatever it is, it’s going to be a big space. Tip-Top—the former fusion restaurant-turned-pool hall on Soi 1—is being converted to a 4th King’s gogo bar and another juggernaut for the King’s Group. And when you read about it in Stickman and Dave the Rave, know they got their info by reading this blog.
Every week, gogo dancers send me selfies and dance videos that they took of themselves at home. I post them to X most of the time. In this week’s slideshow, I threw in some recent pics from Sai. She dances at Pink Panther.
Speaking of the slideshow, which is imbedded at the bottom of this post, I’m going to stop making them. I’m sick of feeling the pressure to take photos while I’m out mongering, plus not many people bother watching, so it’s not worth the effort. Sorry not sorry.
What I am sorry for is all the typos in this post. I rushed to get it out before noon on the day of posting. If I have time, I’ll go back and fix them.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Check back next Sunday for another summary of this redlight life. In the meantime, you can read more Bangkok-related stuff on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
Artwork and photo albums from inside the gogos are available for digital download at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart at super-low prices.
Slideshows from previous blogs going back several years can be found at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
Follow me on Twitter/X @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, and until next time fellow BK Bukowskis and Bathshebas, keep your balls warm, your beer cold, and cheers to another week above ground in the greatest country on Earth: Thailand.
Pro Tip Post-Script: This one’s pretty obvious, but it’s always a good idea to leave your bank card at home when redlighting. It prevents any drunken bad decisions and forces you to monger within your means. If you’re worried about not having enough for the taxi at the end of the night, put a couple hundred in a side pocket, or if necessary, your shoe.
