I have a newfound affinity for lying shills who only post BS and propaganda online and call it Bangkok nightlife “journalism.” In the last two weeks, I’ve posted true things about people who’ve responded with vehement hatred and venom. One tried to get my social media shut down. The other has made me unwelcome in one of my favorite bars in Patpong. I rue the day I decided to say factual, truthful things about redlight goings on. It’s earned me nothing but aggravation.
For that reason, this post will be nothing but positive. Remember two Sundays ago when I said I’d be honest with you because I’m not on anyone’s payroll? Well, fuck that noise. Turns out it’s possible to get a bucket of shit dumped on you regardless of who’s paying your salary (PS—I don’t receive a salary). So no more factual reporting from this overweight, aging barfly. No, sir. It’s gonna be nothing but sunshine and rainbows streaming out of my behind from this post onward.
Another thing I found out is, a lot of people don’t understand sarcasm. For years, I wondered why the Bangkok blogosphere (which I will heretofore refer to as the bullshitsphere) wrote such dull, pedestrian, lackluster, lifeless, uninspired, boring, boorish, bland, blasé content. Why weren’t they cleverer? In short, why was the writing so dumb? Initially I thought it was because the writers themselves were unintelligent. A better explanation is, a large swath of the public doesn’t possess the intellectual fortitude to take on deeper context and content. When I posted two weeks ago that Patpong is dead, I was being facetious. No more of that either, friends. And that’s fine. I’m strictly Gen-X when it comes to this kind of stuff. Apathy rules the whole of my life.
But here’s where I have a problem, because all my life I’ve struggled with not telling the truth. My old flat mate called me ‘honest to a fault.’ He said I told people true things that upset so, so many apple carts. That I lacked the talent to keep my yap shut when telling the truth would cause a commotion. But I want to say here and now that, going forward, I will try my best to not say true things if those things will upset people. Fuck, I almost threw up in my mouth as I typed that. But such is the nature of the Bangkok bullshit blogosphere. And so I acquiesce.
OK, so….let’s see….what can I post here….uh…
When I’m in the redlight and witness something or hear something or think of something worth note, I note it in my phone using an app called Notepad. Then at the weekend I weed through it, chucking out the stuff that’s nonsensical or is too drunkenly stupid (and of course now, too truthful). Here’s what was left over at the end of this week:
On Sunday night, I rolled into XXX Lounge at 20.01, which was also the time a customer happened to barfine their hottest dancer. He was an old, overweight, crusty-looking fellow in gray cargo pants and a burgundy Tommy Bahama shirt. Good for him for snagging her quickly. That’s some professional mongering. She’ll be the last thing he thinks about when he’s on his deathbed, which didn’t appear to be too far off. Good for her, too. That’s rent for the month.
The Pong was dead on Sunday, as usual. It’s always been true that, while busy nights are hard to predict, dead ones are easy. Sundays are always quiet onPong. Which could be an argument for going on a Sunday—if you’re someone who likes to have the gogo, and the girls, to yourself. I mean, it worked for ole crusty Bahama. And it works for me. As someone who hates other people, I relish the sight of a full gogo stage and empty seats all around. But if you want a big party, it’s well-known that, on Sundays, the best RLD is Nana Plaza. And it’s true of the other 6 days as well, especially now that the quality of girls in Cowboy has slipped. Anyone unhappy with Cowboy can easily pop over to Nana, which is just one bts stop away. Pong’s a longer hike. And I suppose that’s why Pong gets busier later. If you hit Cowboy and don’t like it, then Nana. And if you strike out in Nana, it makes sense to Pong (“Pong” is both a noun and a verb, by the way).
I’m sure I Pong’d in Pong on Monday, but I didn’t find any notes in my phone about it, so I’ve nothing to report. On Tuesday, speaking of Nana, I swung by to hang with galpals in Twister, and to sate my penchant for ogling the chickies in Billboard. I rolled onto soi 4 at 21.00, weaving through a collection of not-hot freelancers and back to Hooters for more buffalo chicken tacos and a margarita.
Three swarthy young dudes sat down next to me, talking so loud even my sound-cancelling earbuds couldn’t drown them out. I don’t know my Farsi from my Urdu but whatever they were saying cut through the night like a simitar. When they noticed the car park hookers, I kid you not they started barking and howling like that wolf in the Looney Toons cartoons.
In Billboard there were a lot more girls but quantity doesn’t mean quality. Lots of birth scars and extra pounds—which there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just that Billboard bills itself as the best gogo in BKK. And while it’s understandable that girl-hotness has dipped citywide (I’ve blogged ad nauseum about the reasons for that) it’s a bit unnerving that the hottie shortage has found its way to Billboard. Then again, it could just be because it was a Tuesday.
I hate when the lime in your SML is too small. You end up with it in your mouth after every sip. I mean I’ve mastered the art of the lime tongue deflection maneuver but I shouldn’t have to. Of all the things to skimp on, why limes?
On my last several visits to Billboard, I’ve seen at least two gals that I’d barfine. ‘Twas not the case this time. I chalked it up to it being a Tuesday. Or the best girls might we’ll have been barfined already. It’s important to consider all the possibilities and not make a stupid statement based on one casual glance like some Bangkok bloggers are known to do.
Earlier in the decade, Rainbow 2 was one of the most popular bars in the Plaza. It used to get rammed every night. I popped down to find the place empty with 5 girls onstage—four 6s and one 8. I think the ladyboy bar next door might be scaring customers away.
Twister looked fantastic. I counted two 10s, two 9s and three 8s. That easily kicked Billboard’s ass on the night. Then I suddenly realized why I don’t think like other so-called Bangkok nightlife bloggers. They’re busy counting customers. They base their definition of a good bar on how many fat, sweaty idiots are crammed into the bar. I don’t count customers. I count hotties. That’ll be my new catch phrase when judging gogos: count the hotties.
Twister had a staggering two 27-girl rotations (photos in this week’s slideshow, link below). It was a veritable eye-candy shop. And my friends Best, Nuch, Pui, Bee, and Kaew (the latter two split their week between Nana and Pong) were all there, so ‘twas a good time, especially for a random Tuesday.
Blondie’s social media team bombards the internet with ads, so despite trying it out already and hating it, I talked myself into checking it out again, just in case they stopped sucking. Spoiler alert—they haven’t. And it’s a shame. The bar is so nice inside. It’s new and clean, and smells like vanilla. The staff wear tuxedo shirts and bow ties. But the dancers (there were eight) were all 6s. It’s the opposite of Pong. Every Pong gogo is old and rundown (except XXX) but the girls are way hotter. When I ducked inside Blondie, two drunk dudes were onstage, dancing like idiots and groping the girls. Lord knows nothing bumps up the appeal of a gogo bar like dudes on the stage—which is tiny—tinier even than the one in The Strip. 180b for a fucking SML. I think that’s the highest price in the Plaza.
Mandarin was one of my faves back before the scamdemic but I’d been avoiding it because the mamasan from Club Black had moved there, and I don’t get along with her. But as I was feeling the liquid courage of half a dozen drinks, I decided to give it a shot. The girls looked like actors in a Halloween haunted house. ‘Twas a total freakshow. Their remodeled downstairs bar should open in a week or two and will no doubt be filled with scary monsters.
When marijuana was first decriminalized and shops started popping up in Pong, I scampered over to Nana to see if the Plaza would sell. In those early days, everyone said “No, the cops won’t let us.” Well it seems the cops have capitulated because Lucky Luke’s—the former tiki bar at the entrance to the Plaza—is now a ganja shop. By the time I bailed on Tuesday, the entire ground floor reeked of weed.
I’ve got nothing in my phone for Wednesday, even though I know I Ponged. There’s just a blurb about Bpai, a dancer in XXX, who ran up and asked me to squeeze her fake boobs to show off how soft they’d become, thanks to her constant massaging. Speaking of XXX, Thursday was boss Nung’s birthday. Her hubby was handing out free beers, and the place was packed. A gogo is always more fun when there’s a party because the girls stop “working” and just have a good time (photos available via the YouTube link below).
Pong has a new regular monger. I peg him as American, probably from the Midwest, likely ex-military. But not cool ex-military. He definitely swabbed a deck or cleaned jeeps. He still sports the crew cut, plus glasses and a beer gut, and he’s having the time of his life. He eats up the girls’ attention like he’s been starved of it his whole life, and struts around the redlight like a guy who just won a king-for-a-day contest. And in Pong, he can be. That’s what makes Thailand so awesome for regular dudes. We’re all kings here. It warms my heart to see him so happy. It’s like looking back in time at myself.
Whilst visiting my friends in Pink Panther, three enormous late-30s American women wobbled in and ordered drinks. It was a glimpse into a scene from their eat-pray-love midlife crisis. They were so smug and proud of themselves for daring to enter this bastion of male leisure. It’s a story they’ll tell at suburban wine parties for the next decade. Half an hour later, I saw a Thai guy leading them to a ping pong show. I wished I could’ve been there to see the looks on their faces when they realized they’d gone too far into the real redlight, and no amount of snark, insistence, or nagging (a woman’s only tools for influence) will ever defeat the patriarchy.
On Friday night, a sad Gen-Z couple—doughy beta male in a beard-glasses-t-shirt with horizontal stripes like Popeye the Sailor, and his girlfriend, sporting a tight bob haircut dyed red and dressed in all black—made their way down Soi 2. The dude tried to sneak side glances through the doors of the gogos as they passed. He slowed in front of The Strip, turned and mumbled something to her like, “Oh hey Honey, what about this place? It looks like it could be fu—” “NO,” was her reply without looking up, and she sped up her pace. He scampered to catch up to her. Imagine spending a couple years’ savings to travel thousands of miles to visit a beach with your own bucket of misandrous sand at your side.
In other Pong-related news, the shops on Soi 1 are slowly reopening. Larger chunks of the street are now lit up at night as more tourists wander in looking for the long-defunct night market. As other places open on Soi 2, Pong continues its slow-motion re-bloom. Dream Boys gaygogo has moved from the top of Soi 2 to the old empty space above King’s Garden. Fingers crossed a straight bar will replace it, breathing life back into the hetero vibe that made Pong so great for so long. Not that I mind sharing—I’m just made happier by the notion of having more doors to darken in my favorite redlight.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Check back next Sunday for another summary of redlight-related events. In the meantime, you can read more about Bangkok life on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/ This week’s post is a summary of the great Belgian and German beers over at G’s Bangkok.
Redlight photo slide shows, including the companion for this post, can be found at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
Follow me on Twitter @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, and until next time, 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: For any tourists/newbies who don’t speak Thai, it can sometimes be unnerving to be in the presence of Thai girls, say in a beer bar or gogo or at lunch the day after a long-time barfine, who yammer away at each other in Thai whilst laughing like hyenas. If one were even a little insecure, one might think they were laughing at him. They’re not. Thai girls only talk to each other about two things: food, and how cold or hot the weather is. They’re not talking about you. They’re not even thinking about you. You’re welcome for the peace of mind.
