What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
At time of posting, yesterday was a Buddhist dry holiday, and so there was no mongering or redlighting to be had. For that reason, this post will be short. For that same reason plus others, last week was a pretty shitty one.
On Sunday after opening my fridge and finding nothing in it but hot sauce and kamagra, I popped over to G’s for sausage and sauerkraut, plus a stogie and SoCo. When I’d finished, it was too early for gogos so I lounged around the Patpong beer garden, eventually taking up my usual spot outside King’s 1, and nursed a beer whilst watching the dancers clock in for work.
I love Patpong on a Sunday. It’s quieter than the other 6 days. You can find a seat in a gogo before 21.00, and the cuntient (customer cunt quotient) is somewhat bearable. The girls themselves seem to be in a state of flux—between the excitement of the end of the previous work week and the despair of the beginning of the next one. They’re not sure how to feel, and somehow that combination translates to mildly horny.
From 18.30 to 19.00, the soi went from empty to full, with every kind of foreign weirdo you could think of. In the beer garden, a family of pasty white foreigners sat. The daughter, who couldn’tve been older than 11, couldn’t take her eyes off the K1 stage. That moment was for her a transformative one. In seven short years, she’ll be writhing under a spotlight in Treasures, Las Vegas.
Another bulky Eurocouple pulled up on the K1 terrace with a baby in a stroller, and the outdoor Thai staff went absolutely bonkers. If there’s one thing all Thais love, it’s a baby, and a farang baby with blue eyes is like a friggin’ unicorn to them.
In what’s turning into a trend, I barely touched the seat of a gogo bar on Sunday, and instead just drank on Soi 1 like a retiree. One upside of that is, the off-duty dancers congregate around a big ashtray outside to smoke and shoot the breeze. They always include me in their conversations because I’m as familiar to them as the furniture. Often times they ask questions about my life, trying to get a read on me and my purpose. I tell them nothing of consequence.
On Tuesday I took my customary nap, convinced my harem girl would wake me up with a message when she was on her way over. That message never came so I slept till 19.00, leaving me with the classic scoundrel’s dilemma—lay awake all night staring at the ceiling, reliving every bad experience that’s ever befallen me, or suck down some vodka and sleep the sleep of the alco-coma.
K1 and 2 had several new faces. I must’ve counted a dozen new hotties. A few tried to put the shorttime sell to Seven, but were quickly shut down by the mamasans. In K Corner, a young lass with a perfect body, big naturals, and dark skin caught my eye, partially for the aforementioned attributes and partially because she’s an exXXX Lounge dancer. Her only flaw is a set of crooked upper teeth, but her body and sweet disposition more than made up for it.
A large farang—obviously a first-timer—sat down next to me, wowed by the girls onstage. I know he was wowed because he couldn’t stop saying “WOW!” over and over. He grabbed a passing barmaid and asked about barfining. She shook her hand back and forth and said, “No no, mamasan…mamasan.” Then she went and got a mamasan who tried to explain to the drunken idiot how shorttiming works. He tried to directly barine a girl from the stage. She said “No.” Then he tried three more times with three different girls. They all said “No.” Then he turned and started to ask me a question in garbled speech. I slid off the seat and out the door before he could get two words out.
Virgin had six new faces. I haven’t seen my ex-gf lookalike since the night she worked up the courage to sit with me. I popped over to Foodland and bought a CBD club soda, brought it back to Virgin, ordered a vodka, and made my own cocktail. It was pretty tasty, I have to say.
Friday began in the NanaP beer garden with Thai food and a Tiger pint. On motoring there, I spotted the moon for the 2nd time in as many weeks. This time it was a full moon, which meant a chance for some chicanery on the night. In olden times, if you murdered someone during a full moon you could use it as a defense in court. I wondered who I might send to hell before daylight. Then I remembered that the following day was Macha bacha bucha Buddha Day, and all the wind went out of my sails at the thought of a no-booze Saturday.
The Plaza was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with every Western country’s dregs. Nerds, losers, and douchebags from San Fran to Boston dragged their knuckles around the redlight like retarded monkeys escaped from a zoo. I sped to Angelwitch for ZZ Top, Bryan Adams, INXS, Loverboy, Clapton, and Kravitz. There was a newhotskinny onstage as well. Titless and with bangs/fringe, but one look at her flat stomach and thigh gap and all else was forgiven.
Geisha had 15 regular dancers and 8 in the bubble bath. Gen Zers and young Millennials crowded round the tub, running their hands over any nude body part that got within groping distance. I wondered how they’d ever reassimilate into Western woke leftist cuck culture after a week in Thailand. They were visibly shaking as they sat tubside, as if exorcising some kind of panty-waste demon from their castrated souls. Good luck going back to ball-busting girlboss society, cunts. Better start saving for next year’s trip.
Most of the Geisha crew knows me, so it was wai’s all around. But one new dancer did try to sit down. I told her in Thai that I’m not a tourist. She burst out laughing, grabbed my shoulder, and walked off. As I was leaving, the biggest herd of Ameridorks (nerdmericans?) waltzed in and pushed their way to the tub. Imagine being a total zero from some podunk American town and saving for years to come to TLOS, making that long arduous trip, enduring the heat and the culture shock and the rigmarole only to roll up to a Nana Plaza gogo tub and find 20 other douche nozzles as douchey and lame as you. God almighty, I’d kill myself.
After a couple fist bumps from girls I didn’t recognize, I bailed to the Twister terrace for a quick cigar. It was also overrun by foreign dirtbags. They crowded around me like a school of retardines (retarded sardines). A dude walked by in pastel blue shorts and a long sleeve button-down shirt, buttoned all the way up and sleeves left long in the 34-degree heat. Of course, he made a beeline for the ladyboy bar.
Oil came out to hang for a bit, and I squeezed her silicone tits with one hand while puffing on my cigar with the other. Tourists stared incredulously. Anytime I can cause the synapses to burst in the brain of a feminang (feminist farang), I feel a small swelling of joy in my heart.
When Oil went to the loo, a pudgy yank sauntered over and asked if he could join me. I said “No, fuck off!” and he scampered away like a scared squirrel. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a tour guide or anyone’s wingman, and no, you can’t ride my long-established coattails into the redlight. Fuck. Right. Off.
Two frat bros from—I’m gonna say Scotsdale—tried to lead a herd of 10 white chicks into Twister. Six seconds later they all stormed out and began yelling at the guys. One slag wagged her finger in a dude’s face. Goddam, Id’ve knocked her the fuck out. Then they paraded around the beer garden looking for people looking at them, stupidly not understanding that farang vagine has no agency in Thailand.
Then I motaxi’d t’Pong, which was a clusterfuck. Virgin decided to shut for Friday and Saturday, which meant the 3 King’s were overflowing—actually 2 King’s, since King’s 2 was also shut. Every seat in both open King’s was taken up by—I’m gonna call them “fatpon” (fat Nipon). I guess the “loser flees home country for female attention in Thailand” theme isn’t restricted to shitbag Americans.
Due to limited venues and no seats, I was once again relegated to the K2 terrace for 90b Leo’s. I counted no less than 10 Indian pea/peanut hawkers. Really, what in the goddam fuck? A redlight needs, at most, one of those dudes. 10 is way, way, way too many. The only problem with capitalism is, you can’t murder the extraneous cunts in the market.
On a side note, who wears board shorts and flip flops to the redlight? Twats. Is the answer to that question. Another side note: is there anything sadder than a ping pong barker leading a naïve broke Punjabi to a shitty PP show?
On Wednesday I switched up my usual harem girl and as a result was finished fornicating by 19.00 so I slipped t’Pong for a black nyet’ro and a Drew Estate Tabak. The greasy, hippie, eat-pray-love tourists were confounded about how and why every gogo dancer that came out for a fag wai’d and made conversation with the fat old cigar smoker.
Training a gogo dancer is like trying to teach a cat to do tricks. A hotskinny who I bought a drink for once in Virgin got it in her head that she should claim me from that day forward, and it took some effort to train her out of that idea. First, I had to buy a drink for one of her friends, which she did not like at all. But she persisted. She came over and asked to sit down. I said, “No, I’m leaving in five.” Then she asked for a quick ladydrink. I pointed to the empty bin like, “Oh no, I already paid.” After three such encounters in the space of two weeks, she’s finally figuring things out—at least, I hope she is.
On Saturday, I struck out Pongward, knowing it’d be a depressing sight. Sure enough, all gogos were shut, as were all restaurants—Shenanigan’s and Derby King included. I guess it makes no economic sense to for these places to open on dry days. The food court catered to a shameful smattering of tourists. The beer garden was just a vacant square of asphalt.
Thankfully, ganja is (at least for) now available everywhere, rendering any religious dry day moot. So I went looking for a cookie to substitute for booze. The first two places I tried wanted 1600 and 2,000 baht respectively for a single cookie. That’s what we in the biz call “retard prices.” For a minute, I thought maybe weed had grown beyond my price range. Then I found a joint selling cookies for 150b apiece. That’s my speed, by gum. I got a double-chocolate and hoofed it to G’s to check if he was serving. He said the cops had already come in twice, and offered me a non-alcoholic malt apple soda. I drank it with a side of Cajun fries. A stupid American clam came in with a crew of friends and tried to talk Guido into serving them booze. He politely denied her, but coaxed the group to a table anyway. Within minutes, the place was at capacity so I beat a hasty retread out of there and was home by 20.00. Several of the Pong massage barkers offered me free beer, and there was a time when I’dve loved nothing more than to sit and drink with a bunch of lo-so, salt-of-the-earth Thais, since I’m both low and salty, but the pot cookie gave me such horrendous painful gas that I had no choice but to take refuge in my apartment where I could pass poison clouds in sad solitude.
Because of the non-events of the previous week, the slideshow companion for this post (imbedded below) is pretty dull, so I threw in some recent lingerie pics that Bee sent over. May you find them as “stimulating” as I did.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Sorry for all the typos. I didn’t proofread. 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 (or tits) warm, your beer cold, and cheers to another week above ground in the greatest country on Earth: Thailand.
https://esy.com/shop/ArtTourist
Pro Tip Post-Script: When switching from booze to ganja on a Buddhist dry holiday, ask the seller how long the cookie high will last before taking a bite. At time of writing, it’s 10 am the morning after and I’m still high as a kite.
