What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
Hot enough for ya? Damn, friends and neighbors, Thailand is sizzling. The upshot of low season is, the cunt tourists flee the rising temperatures back to their backwater, podunk shitty hometowns, leaving us locals to boil in peace. And foot traffic is definitely down in Patpong, though NanaP thus far seems unaffected by the downturn in tourism.
Last Sunday was day 9 of my brother’s sexual sojourn in Thailand and marked the midway point of our stay in Pattaya. At noon, he had over a girl he’d met in Tree Town for a quickie, then decided to stay in his room and binge half of Shogun, so I was mercifully left to enjoy my natural state: solitude. I binged a bit of Dick Turpin whilst sipping Heineken and nibbling mint chocolates. Being in Thailand whilst not juggling a harem seven days a week is a strange and strangely welcome environment. I haven’t microdosed kamagra for over a month, since before going to Cali, and aside from nailing two regulars on the only two nights the sib and I were in Bangkok, I haven’t had to gear up for anyone. The peace and quiet are dizzyingly acceptable. After looking after my brother, the only burden of the day is polishing off a Cuban cigar and a bottle of wine. It’s like a temporary sex retirement—a sextirement. I don’t think I’m ready for it long-term, but for the moment, it’s downright relaxing.
The only snag is, my mind keeps wandering to thoughts of a particular member of my harem who up until recently has only been an amusing distraction. But for some reason, she’s taken on a kind of appeal in my imagination, the source of which I cannot fathom because I’ve done just about everything to her that a debauched, craven sex maniac such as myself can think of. So why then is she popping to the forefront of my temporal lobe? I just don’t know. All I do know is, the minute I get back to BKK—or rather the 3rd day after, since my numbers 1 and 2 girls take priority upon my return—I’m going to tie her to my bed and see just what the fuck is what. Why in the good goddam is she on my mind? And what will I do if ramming her against the headboard doesn’t cure it? But I digress.
The Ptown wind-down was more or less uneventful. My bro established a routine of alternating between a Soi 6 girl and a Tree Town girl, inviting them to his room before work (he learned from the master), after which the whole of Pattaya was an anticlimax—or for him, a post-climax denouement. On Monday we revisited Jersey Dan on The 6 and brought him pizza from Slice. On Tuesday we hit up Walking Street where the only thing that piques my brother’s interest is the ice bar, because he’s nearly 400 lbs and is constantly overheated. He’d already nailed his Tree Town bird in the afternoon, taking a page from Seven’s “git ‘er done early” book, which meant we’d be in and out of WS early, too—an old man’s mongering M.O. shall we say. When we got in the lift, it reeked of cologne. Less than a minute before, some shlub in his best acid wash jeans and popped-collar polo shirt was in there, coated in Drakkar Noir in hopes it would give him an edge in the redlight. News flash, buddy. This ain’t Ibiza, or West Hollywood, or whatever Hippodrome discotheque Western nightmare you’re thinking of. This is Thailand. The only smell that makes a Thai girl wet is emanating from the cash in your wallet.
We hit the ice bar and had a couple shots, shivering in the cold and jumping up and down like kids. Then we had gang kiow wan in Sens Grill before checking out Shark Bar, where only one girl was skinny enough for Seven, but the DJ made up for it by knocking it outta the park with the music. And the one hotskinny renewed my faith in Ptown. In truth, I’d begun to lose hope of finding a harem-worthy girl in this city after several visits yielded no candidates. But one magnificent 18-year-old in Shark Bar allayed all fears.
Then we slipped into Windmill, where I knew the sleaze and extra lbs (that’s pounds in Imperial weight, not British money or ladyboys) would put a smile on my bro’s face. The second we sat down, two oompa loompas accosted him. One was naked, and she took his hand and shoved two of his digits in her cooch. From then on it was a debauched hellfest of gross body fluids and extra folds of flesh. One chubster kept trying to pull me into the fray. I left my body and went to my happy place, hoping not to get smeared with clap-ridden dollups of skank fluid. After what felt like hours but was probably only 20 minutes, I was able to push him out the door.
Then we skipped to Lighthouse, which was as rough-and-tumble wild as their social media constantly boasts. No 9s or 10s but their playful attitudes more than made up for it. Skyfall had a few hotskinnies, and we were assaulted with attention—lots and lots of unwanted, aggressive attention. From fat barmaids to not-fat-enough-for-my-brother gogo dancers. I must’ve shoved away half a dozen crazy broads. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the whole joint was on something. The whole bar tried to push a too-skinny girl onto my sib for a barfine. Up the wrong tree was that gogo a’barkin.’ And there were lots of late-30s fit strange in there. Like JLo in current year. Toned and old. When a rotund barmaid started pinching my nipples, I knew it was time to leave.
On our last night in Ptown, my little bro was too tuckered out after five straight days of afternoon banging to go out, so he stayed in while I set out for The 6. At Bender Bar whilst hanging with Jersey Dan, a longhaired nipon walked in wearing black bellbottoms, a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up like an extra from The Outsiders, douchey tattoos on both triceps, and big black shiny cowboy boots complete with silver spurs. The girls chuckled behind is back at the crazy outfit. The dude brought in three chubby Japanese in shorts and flip flops. It was unclear whether he was just their guide, or the ‘fashionable’ one in their group.
Not much more to report on the night. I stopped in at Flirt, and later Passion for one SML each, because they had some fetching fillies in both. I sat on a stool near the entrance so I could watch the hordes pass by on the soi. Dan guesstimated that around 20% of The 6’s customer base are Pattaya locals. The rest are a stream of slovenly, fat, stupid-looking foreigners that slink along like a swarm of roaches. When I eventually retire to Ptown and become one of the 20%, I don’t see myself coming to The 6 at night too often. The scum-overload is too unappealing. I realize I’ll have to find a couple of small gogos on walking street to make routine. XS and Pin-Up have the hottest girls but they’re too big and too busy. I’ll need to find something akin to the 2016-era Living Dolls or Peppermint. That’s the last time they had hot girls in both venues.
On Friday, we journeyed back to BKK and I was thankful to leave Pattaya. The town is lovely, and someday I’ll get used to the lifestyle, and I know I’m destined to die there after hopefully a long series of sunset years. But I ain’t at that point yet.
Back in Silom, we had Sunrise Tacos for the 2nd time in three days because my brother’s diet has four food groups: burgers, pizza, tacos, and fried rice. A trio of fat 20something American females sat at a nearby table, talking wayyyy too loud for the space (one of them actually shouted “OH MY GAWWD!!” loud enough to rattle the windows) and cackling like retards. Ironically, I survived my entire holiday in Cali without hearing the sound of stupid clam. I had to travel 8,000 miles back to Thailand to get a dose of that aggravation.
My sib got a call from his last year girl—a Rubenesque lass from Nana Plaza—who begged to hit up his hotel room before dinnertime, which allowed me to have an early Pong and a stogie outside K1, after a prolonged absence from my fave BKK neighborhood. King’s Castle 2 (actually their 4th venue) is still not ready to go, but the next-door King’s billiards hall is open for business, with lots of new young hostesses and a few old mamasans who all shouted my name as I passed by. Dok Bar, across from Foodland on Soi 2, is open and looks about as fun as a root canal. I get it if you’re a vanilla tourist fresh from Phi Phi and you and your girlfriend just polished off some meat on a stick in the Night Market. Dok Bar was made for you. But an old gogo rat like me will never set foot in there. And that’s how the universe maintains balance—with joints like Dok Bar sucking up the riffraff like a vacuum cleaner so they don’t end up sitting next to me in a gogo bar.
King’s 1 still rocks a stunning roster of girls. I’ve said before that Thai-owned gogos attract a certain type of dancer that won’t work for farang come hell or high water. And for some reason, the ones that gravitate to the King’s Group are overwhelmingly hotter, fitter, naughtier, and friendlier. I don’t know how the King’s get so lucky.
I ended the night in Virgin, surrounded by the smiling faces of dancers and staff who treated me like a freed hostage, triumphantly returned to his loved ones. I think one barmaid actually teared-up at the sight of me. Why in the everloving fuck am I treated this way? I’m not special. I know this for a fact. I’m just an old monger. Maybe it’s that, in an industry where most customers are there for one night, never to be see again, they just feel more comfortable when they see a familiar face.
After Virgin, I had to cut the night short and speed home to prep for my number 1 harem girl, who’d waited impatiently for my return from Ptown.
Too many girls asked where I’d been, and by that I mean, more of them seemed to miss me than what I’m comfortable with. In Pattaya, nobody knows me at all, and that’s both good and bad. In Ptown, I sometimes miss the adoration. In Patpong, I’m too familiar to too many people. Maybe I just want to complain. But I’m unhappy in both environments.
On Saturday (yesterday, at time of posting) I had a harem girl at 18.00 and then took my brother to Nana Plaza. Our first stop was Hooter’s, where the yank-centric menu celebrated a Mexican holiday called Cinco de Mayo (5th of May) with 99b margaritas and tacos.
I of course ordered a snack of 911-sauced buffalo chicken tacos. My brother got a double cheeseburger and fries, missing out on the Latin fare. If you’re reading this on Sunday, the promotion ends today, so get over there and getchyo fiesta on.
In NanaP, we hit Angelwitch first to say hello to Joey D. Luckily for my sib, the stage was packed with thick chicks. He admired the view whilst I focused on the DJ’s tunes. Joe mentioned that AW’s 24-year Anniversary is coming up at the end of May. That’ll be a party worth partaking in. Then we swung into Essence, mainly to see if Earn had lost weight. She hasn’t, but the gogo now has special “shows” where a coupla dames put on a choreographed dance routine in matching costumes. Unlike other Nana bars that go full nude, Essence draws the line at topless.
Speaking of nude, we then lounged on a chaise in Geisha, near enough to the bath tub to ogle the chunky monkeys in their soapy suds. There were two 10s and a 9 onstage, plus a literal tonne of chicks in my bro’s weight class. Then we hit Private 69. ‘Twas my first time in the joint, and I was pleasantly surprised to find a 10 in each rotation. One of them—Fah—is arguably the hottest gogo dancer in Bangkok at the moment. I mean, I haven’t been in every gogo in the city, but I might be one of five who’ve seen enough stages to make such a claim. She’s a former Twister dancer who switched to P69 and is now a skyrocket in flight. The photo is taken from her Line, and doesn’t do her justice. To see what makes her truly special, you have to get an eyeful of her in stilettos and a bikini.
Someone in Nana got the bright idea to slather the walls in terrible murals, and one genius though it’d be smart to coat the stairwell next to Geisha in all-black. It’s like getting sucked into a dark abyss. Anyone who doesn’t want to break an ankle must now bring a flashlight to Nana, though security likely won’t let you in with it. The gauntlet to get into the Plaza is tighter than ever. In fact, two dudes now check passports at the entrance. That is to say, they check Chinese people’s passports. My brother and I walked in after a gentle search and no PP check. There was actually a crowd of sinos standing around the entrance, unable or unsure about entering because they didn’t bring their passports with them to the redlight. Why they’re checking PPs is beyond me. Maybe they’re just Immigration LARPing.
After that, we bailed on Nana and, after dropping my brother off at his hotel I skipped over t’Pong for a gander at all three King’s and a trip to Virgin. The 3Ks were all on point—rammed with customers and hotties. Several galpals came round to keep me company in each joint and make me feel like one of the family. As I left King’s 1 I ran into Chris—former XXX manager and now punter-about-town. We chatted for a bit about the BKK nightlife scene, and the various cunts battling for social media supremacy in it. We bemoaned the fact that so many “bloggers” and photogs are either crazy, stupid, assholes, or all of the above. Then we flitted to Virgin and smoked mini Cubans while a dozen hot, bikini-clad vixens writhed on stage. In my headphones, Vampire Weekend whined about the weather in New England. That band was the soundtrack that followed me through Costa Rica and Panama nearly two decades ago. At that time, I fell in love with tropical climes, white sand beaches, and palm trees. The only thing missing was an endless stream of gorgeous, cocoa-colored women—hence the relocation to TLOS.
Three effeminate beta cuck Americans entered and sat down next to us. One bearded twat tried to hang out in the gogo without ordering a drink. The staff were insistent. He sat cross-legged as though he didn’t have a dick’n’balls, which I suspected he didn’t. I resisted the urge to kick him in the face. All three of them stared impotently at the stage, seemingly unsure about how to act or what to do. I necked my beer and popped back to King’s for one last drink on the terrace, where I spotted the same three dudes contemplating a rotie. And that was the end of my week.
In other news, I was contacted by a gogo bar last week that demanded I remove the photos I took in their bar over the past five years from my Members Only content on this very website. They accused me of “stealing” the photos. Ahem, pardon me fuckstick, but I took the photos. By copyright law, that means I own them. I did not “steal” them from a gogo where the manager was happy to let me take and post them when it meant free publicity for his bar. In none of Marvel’s multiverses of madness does a bar own the photos that a customer took there. Anyone who asserts that is just plain retarded. Which brings me to the real reason I believe they got their knickers in a wad. A particular cunt of the Bangkok social media variety works for the gogo, taking photos and managing their Facebooks and whatnot. Actually, two blokes do it, and one of them is an insufferable twat. He’s also the dude who convinced Bada Bing and Radio City to let him do their social media. The gist of his scheme is, he shows them his enormous online reach, conveniently not mentioning that that reach only applies to the bars he works for, and promises them a wide audience, which he does not have. He then takes photos in their bars, promotes them to tiny audiences on that bar’s profiles, and then uses the photos to pump up followers on his personal website. A litigious person might call it fraud—I call it being an all-out shit stain of the lowest, scummiest variety. But that’s who these gogo owners have thrown in with, and that’s who I think is trying to scrub my photos from the interweb. And so when they accused me of “stealing” my own photos and demanded I delete them from my page, I told them (him) to go fuck themselves. It’s a shame, because I used to like visiting that gogo, and I would’ve gone on promoting them for free. I even like the manager there, despite him telling me to take down my photos. But the law is clearly on my side in this instance, and I will never bow to the rat-faced walking yeast infection that runs their Twitter. He can eat shit.
Imagine the kind of gall—or maybe it’s stupidity—it would take to claim ownership of someone else’s photos. But I’m not without magnanimity. If the douche canoe who runs their social is reading this (and I know he is. He tortures himself by reading superior writing and then grinds his teeth at his lack of talent), I’m happy to sign over the rights to the photos…for 500,000 baht. That’s my price for painstakingly collecting them over half a decade, visiting the gogo a thousand times, buying girls drinks, building relationships with them and paying them for photos, for putting in the time, effort, and legwork to acquire that content. Send me an email and I’ll forward my bank account number. Once I have the cash, I’ll send you the gallery and delete all the photos from my hard drive. That’s my offer, take it or fuck off. Actually, if you take it, then also fuck off.
Speaking of, my website has a Members Only section now. For $1 a month, you can get access to exclusive galleries and videos. I’ll add new photos and/or videos every Friday. Scroll up and click “Members Only Content” to get at it. As of this posting, there are 12 galleries, with more on the way.
Here’s something interesting: Bangkok Seven imitators.
I have no delusions of grandeur. I’m strictly small-time and I know it. But I’ve been very lucky in that, for nearly a decade, bar managers and gogo dancers took enough of a liking to me to allow me to snap candid photos in the gogos. As far as I know, I’m the only non-bar employee who’s been permitted to do this. When I first started posting them online, a handful of Bangkok “nightlife” photogs said, “What the fuck is he doing? Those pics don’t look good. He doesn’t use a flash, and he’s not editing them before posting.” I think they confused what I do with what they do. They’re freelance gogo employees. They take glossy, staged promotional photos for the bars’ social media sites. Which is the opposite of what I do. I form friendships with the girls and capture real redlight moments. Initially, the consensus from the other “nightlife” photogs was, “Seven’s photos look like shit.” But then, shortly after the Covid lockdowns were lifted, one very outspoken hater began copying me, taking lo-fi pics and video with his phone. Flash forward to today, dudes are stealing girls’ in-bar photos that they post to Instagram and say, “Look how much fun I had with these chicks.” Hey douche canoe, that’s clearly a selfie taken by a gogo dancer that you stole off her Line.
They say imitation is the highest form of flattery, but what if the imitators are stupid, subhuman fucktards? I ain’t flattered, is what I’m saying.
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/
Slideshows from previous blogs going back several years can be found at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
My buddy Jack and I host a growing Facebook community with lots of nightlife-related content at: https://www.facebook.com/groups/thaiagogo
and I’ve got a small but robust group of pervs posting photos daily at a group called Super Hot Asians here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/374120690195407
Follow me on Twitter/X @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, along with these other profiles that’re chock full of photos of hotties.
@bar_thigh
@BangkokNightli2
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.
Thai chick-related posters and prints on canvas can be purchased at
https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
Here’s a sample of some recently-added posters and prints on canvas…
Pro Tip Post-Script: Don’t put too much effort into Facebook groups.
It turns out, the fucks at FB allow random group members to become Admins if they participate enough, and/or Admin status is for some reason easy to hack. I have a buddy who put years of work into building a FB group to over 60k members, and the goddam thing got stolen right out from under him. Now he has no control over the group. He’s been deleted as an Admin, and some other fucker is posting content to 60k followers that he didn’t earn. And Facebook has zero interest in addressing the matter. Oh and inevitably, X (Twitter) will get shut down by the US govt because they can’t police the speech on the platform. For folks like me, who use these outlets for Thai girls in bikinis and not politics, it’s a real kick in the balls.
