What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
I’m what the experts refer to as an aging whoremonger. Like the lion of a pride who passes from his heyday to his golden years, slowing down, opting to skip chasing four out of five gazelles, taking long naps in the afternoon…now that my brother is safely back in the US, the antigravity of semi-retirement has finally started to take hold. My steps feel lighter. My head feels freer. The walls of my apartment no longer feel like a prison cell that must be escaped by fleeing t’Pong every night. The only word I can think of to describe it is “comfort.” It’s a thing I’ve felt before, for brief moments. But never for this long a stretch. At time of posting, I’ve been in a constant state of comfort for eight days. I think I even have less gray hair than a week ago.
Life moves at a weird pace, now. For 10 years, I woke up at 6 am. My M to F consisted of 11-hour days. For 10. Fucking. Years. It was a slog, and a waste of precious time. Especially at my age, when there aren’t many days left. But I endured it because the pay was great, and it fueled my 7-day-per-week redlight habit. Now, retirement has coincided with my lust for neon and dancing girls waning to a faint whisper in the back of my loins. If you’re one of the 10 people who look forward to reading these, don’t fret. I’ll still get out to the gogos every week—just not every fucking day. But I digress.
The pace of Bangkok life is quite different when you don’t have a day job. Forgive me if you already know this—it’s new to me. For one, I don’t wake up to an alarm anymore. It just happens when it happens. Whenever that is, instead of rushing out the door, I now get on the stationary bike or take a walk around Lumphini Park. Then I do my side hustle for a couple of hours, in the nude, on my couch. Then I take a nap. Then one of two things happens: either a harem girl comes over or I watch a movie. Then I have dinner—my only meal of the day—and then most nights I do something creative like write or practice ukulele, or do something useless like go down a YouTube rabbit hole on aliens or cryptids, and a couple times per week I redlight. I know it sounds mundane, but mundane is a relief. I’m loving staying at home…I’m basically the opposite of an incel. I’m an ingolo—involuntary gigolo. My harem refuse to stop banging me.
On Monday, my number 4 concubine, who’s been with me for seven years, came over to clean my apartment and service my wedding tackle. What I like best about her, besides her excellent oral skills, is she gets naked to blow me. Some of my BJ girls will just climb into bed fully clothed, because why not? But this girl takes it all off, in case I feel like nailing her halfway through the beej. She leaves her lesbian gf at home to come see me, and I can tell she hopes every visit will end with sex. Her vajeen is starved for attention.
Wednesday was one of those dry “Buddha Day”s. I love to Pong on those days, mainly so I can watch the confused tourists fumble about, looking helpless, then settle for a fruit shake before lumbering home in a cloud of disappointment. I picked up a cookie from the ganja peddlers outside Domino’s and skipped over to G’s for a booze-free Paulaner Weissbier and a Liga Privada. It’s ridiculous that a man can’t crack a beer on Buddha Day, but he can have all the weed he can handle. Which for me ain’t a lot. After two bites and 20 minutes, I was anchored to the chair, stoned out of my mind. I barely made it home.
Midweek, I had a quiet Pong. It started in K1 where Offy monopolized my time. She’s not someone I’d ever copulate with, but she has a good attitude and the puts up with my wandering hands which is a very important trait in a gogo dancer. Plus, she always orders a tequila sunrise and splits it with me. On this visit, the boss did his usual shtick of interrupting the dancing to get on the microphone and offer fatherly advice to the girls. It’s always in Thai, so the customers must sit patiently and wait for him to stop talking. This time, when he finished, all the girls had a good laugh, and Offy turned to me to ask if I understood what he said. I told her I didn’t. She repeated it to me in Thai, as if that would somehow make me understand it. I told her I understood what she said exactly as much as I understood what the boss said, which was not at all. Turns out he was telling the girls to be careful of perverted taxi drivers when they leave the club at 3 am to go home. The way I figured it out is, Offy took my phone and used Google Translate to write out the phrase, which returned an English transmogrification: “dirty taxi.” So I said, “Ohhhh, tahksee sokaprok.” Offy laughed and laughed and then said, “No. Driver…” and then she made a gesture with her hands of a cad squeezing a pair of boobs, and only then did I understand. “I though you understand Thai,” Offy said, clearly disappointed. I wanted to ask her, at what time in the past 14 years would I ever have learned the words for “beware of perverted taxi drivers groping you on your way home”? but instead I smacked her cooter and took a sip of her drink.
In KII there appeared onstage a trio of blondes. I’m going to call them “the triplets” because they were all BFFs with identical hair and hotskinny bods. The joint also had four new door hostesses—young, slim, and pretty. All commendable traits. The tedium will be teaching them that Seven isn’t a tourist.
A Korean couple came in and sat down next to me. I know they were Korean because all Koreans have the same halitosis. This isn’t a bigoted statement—it’s just factually true. The odor is the same no matter where you are in the world. Koreans exude a combination of garlic and kimchi. It’s quite pungent. They seemed to enjoy the show, though, and I resisted the urge to pass the lass a mint.
Outside K1 whilst puffing on a banana Backwoods, a Chinese dude with fat rolls around his neck casually took a seat at my table. I didn’t know if it was racism (Sinos see white people as dogs) or lack of decorum that made him think he could invade my space. I took it in stride, but I doubt a Brit would’ve done the same. Maybe the biggest culture clash in TLOS is the profusely good manners of the English juxtaposed with the savagery of the Chinese. Speaking of, I witnessed many a nerdy Sino leaving the Pong with their shorttime barfine in tow. I love to see capitalism alive and thriving in the redlight. It gives me hope for humanity. Lots of folks I know in The States view sex for money as immoral, exploitative, and evil. Ironically, woke leftist feminists are split on the issue. Some say it’s empowering for a woman to take control of her vagina and use it to better her living situation. Others hate the idea, in my view because they hat men, and the thought of a woman pleasuring a man for any reason makes them seethe.
I recently saw a film that tackled the issue: “Poor Things,” staring Emma Stone. Spoilers ahead…In the story, a young woman unblemished by life experience leaves the man who loves her with no compunction at the first chance to fuck a stranger. She then runs off with that stranger, gives away all his money, and gets a job as a prostitute while the dude ends up in an insane asylum. Through whoring herself out, she becomes an educated, sophisticated socialist, explaining that the oldest profession means she is “her own means of production,” completely missing the point that prostitution is, in fact, the opposite of socialism. When the man who loved her in the first place says he will still marry her in spite of all her whoring, she calls the love “practical.” When he tells her his love is “passionate,” she calls him ”adorable.” Besides the obvious misandry in the film, at least it promotes the benefits of prostitution. And that’s a message I can support. Though after watching Emma Stone nail multiple men, showing off her goods with full frontal, I somehow find her revolting now.
Every King’s gogo has been stupid-busy lately. You’d be hard pressed to find a seat after 9 pm any night of the week. I bailed out of K1 and managed to squeeze into K Corner. The vibe was super upbeat, with happy girls who seemed unfazed by the low season downturn. Then again, maybe they don’t feel it in joints like that.
Not so in Virgin, which was crammed with hotties per usual, but where the low season curse was in full swing. Slim customer turnout had those hussies clamoring for cash. A girl I knew from PreCovid King’s Corner who knows better than to approach me broke protocol and asked me for a drink. I stuck 60b in her bra. My exgf lookalike, who typically avoids me like the plague, wai’d me from the stage. But she missed her window with Seven. You snooze, you lose, honey.
This time of year is what I call the Monger’s Market. Tourist traffic slows to a trickle, and that’s the local punter’s time to shine. If you even glance in a girl’s direction, she immediately takes note. Their radar is dialed up to 11. It’s a cutthroat business, and the girls all have their proverbial knives out. At one point, 20 girls lined up in front of me like meat on a buffet tray, and I knew some Nipunt (Nipon cunt) was sat behind me. They only do the smorgasbord thing for the Japs. Like it’s a supermarket and the girls are cold cuts. It’s the only thing that raises my feminist hackles in the redlight.
Virgin is caught in the same hottie vortex as the rest of the BK gogo scene. Every day, more new sex goddesses get sucked into the life like satellites losing their orbit and crashing to Earth. For the past month, every time I’ve stepped into a gogo, a fresh crop of hotties has adorned the stage. There were easily a dozen new girls in Virgin last week. Where were all those vixens when I was at the top of my game? Oh that’s right—they weren’t born yet.
Since I’d slept all day, I wasn’t ready to go home after Virgin, so I ambled over to Groovin’ High Jazz Club for a Round Midnight (lychee vodka, apricot liqueur, wine-infused butterfly pea flower, Diamour Blanc de Blancs Vin Mousseux) and the mellow sounds of Sirawi Kitiweraphant and Ron Cole—two guitars and a beach vibe that thrummed in my sinews like the tropics themselves.
Friday was the opening of King’s new gogo. As I walked through the Night Market, half a dozen King’s II girls intercepted me to say, “Seven, tonight I work at the new bar.” Sure enough, what used to be known as King’s Castle 2 was shut. Eventually, the wall separating it and K1 will be torn down to create one gigantic King’s 1. Meanwhile, the new King’s 2 (which I’ll heretofore refer to as New2) opened to a frantic customer response at 20.30. As I’d arrived t’Pong at 20.00 I had to kill time with a beer in K1. Half the former KII bar staff were in there, slinging drinks. The roster was small at that early hour. I only spotted two hotskinnies, plus a bunch of average-sized lasses. After one SML and zero harassment from dancers, I spun out to the new gogo. ‘Twas apropos to call it King’s 2, since 90% of the old KII roster moved over there (the rest went to K1). In addition, several K Corner girls came over, along with a slew of hot newbies (hewbies for short, copyright BKK7). The mamasan bragged they had 75 girls—not on the same night, obviously. On entry, there was a 15-girl rota onstage with another 30 or so waiting in the wings. By 21.00 the manager shoved in another 5 girls per rota, so by simple math that’s 60 girls on opening night. That’s nearly a platoon of pussy.
I noticed some new tables and chairs outside New2, so I pulled up, sparked a mini Drew Estate Tabak, and ordered a black ruskie, which is actually on the drink menu. Minutes later, the barmaid returned and said “No have.” So I walked to the bar, spotted the bottles of Kahlua and vodka, and asked the bartender to mix two shots in a glass with ice. Voila! Black ruskie. ‘Twas the second ever drink ordered in the place. Then I took the drink to the cashier, told her what it was, told her the price, and handed her the cash. Did the new bar need some help out the gate? Of course. Is Seven big-hearted enough to walk them through their first baby steps? It’s literally what I was put on this Earth to do—to get new gogos off their training wheels. That and, to a lesser degree, helping new redlight girls learn the techniques of the horizontal. But I digress.
The ruskie was sparse. I made a mental note to stick with the K1 terrace for my stogie-ruskie ritual. From the second the New2 opened, it tore Patpong a new asshole. The joint is deceptively large. The stage holds 20 girls, plus they’ve got three private VIP areas with poles of their own that are very cozy and set apart from the prying eyes of the regular riffraff.
By half 9 the joint was in a state of pandemonium. The first barfine came at 21.03. ‘Twas a skinny, balding Nipon who pulled the trigger with a tall, lithe pretty-faced titless gal. A few moments later, a small, swarthy, bald farang left with one of the hostesses. There were so many hot girls in the joint (hostesses included), I started to wonder if K1 and the Corner even had anyone working in them, so I decided to check. The first croticable (crazy noticeable) change in K Corner was, the girls were decked-out in black lingerie, the first change from the usual red garb in literally a year. Undoubtedly this was for convenience, so any of them could be plucked from the stage and transplanted into the New2 if needed. I counted two rotations of 15 in the Corner, so their numbers were unaffected by the new bar. K1 was too crowded so I sat outside with a mini Cohiba and a well-poured ruskie. A dancer stood nearby smoking a cigarette, so I told her she could share my table. What ensued was the first full conversation in Thai where I understood everything she said and vice versa. Her name was (redacted), 20 years old from Udon, mother of one. She’s afraid of farang but doesn’t mind the Nipon because their junk is small and unformidable. I got her a tequila and she talked my ear off for half an hour. Then I popped to Virgin which was a clusterfuck of clunge (clungerfuck for short, copyright BKK7). Gogo dancer Yok has developed the habit of accosting me in there, usually for a tip in lieu of a drink. Which is fine, she’s nice and all. I’ll never take her home, and so it’s just plagoco (platonic gogo company). Which is nice, but it results in a constant clungeblock for Seven. No other girl can make a play with Yok monopolizing my time. I know because while we were sat there, a tallskinny kept making eyes at me from the stage. It took five minutes for me to realize I’d drunkenly stuffed a hundy in her bra earlier in the week. She only focused in once Yok shuffled off to the toilet. She was very flirtatious, and her smile had me wrapped around her finger in seconds. But as I’m not in the market for a new concubine, I merely stuck another hundy in her crotch and bailed.
On Saturday I breezed t’Nana and straight to Angelwitch. What other gogo would play Gorillaz followed by Soul Asylum? Nobody, that’s who. Then “Suicide Blonde” by INXS, then the motherfucking Clash. I chatted with Joey D about the AW anniversary t-shirt designs before flipping next door to Spanky’s. I hadn’t been in there since my buddy RJ stopped managing the joint, and after that visit I’ll never go back. The stage was 50-50 chunks to hotskinnies, and the DJ played The Doors, then ELO, then Prince. Those were the highlights. SMLs were 200 baht. Fucking why? Did they sprinkle 20b worth of gold dust in the bottles? The nerve. And when I paid with a 500b bill, the barmaid returned with two hundies and two fifties, as if I’m gonna tip 50 baht. FFFFFUCK OFF. Then—and this wasn’t Spanky’s’ fault—the place was rife with drunk cunt Americans who stomped around the stage harassing the girls, clogging the walkways, and pushing other customers around. One dickhead couldn’t find a seat so he tried to shove me out of mine. It took all my effort not to break his ribs. I finished my beer outside. That’s how crappy it was.
At half 8 I knew Private 69 would just be opening, so I swung in. The hotties were fashionably late as usual, so I was faced as the lone customer with a stage of runners-up. 165b SMLs though, so I had that going for me. Then for no reason, I followed by nose to Butterflies. They had 30 dancers divided among two stages and the bath tub. 70-30 chunk to skinny ratio. When I went to the loo, a big-titted topless girl in the tub shouted “Sevennn!” I didn’t recognize her so I gave her a quick wai and hurried on. As I stumbled past Bun Bun 1 a hostess grabbed me and said, “Seven, I remember you from Superstar in Patpong,” so I let her drag me inside. There was triple the number of dancers onstage from the last time I was in there. Some were hotskinnies, too. 165b SML.
After Nana I’d planned to hit Cowboy, but after guzzling five beers on an empty stomach (I forgot to eat on Saturday) I craved the comfort of familiar surroundings, so I jumped a mo’taxi t’Pong for a small Liga Privada and two b ruskies outside K1. I ran to the loo and got stopped by a dozen girls and barmaids and their wai’s. I’m not complaining. It’s nice to be treated like a local. Then miraculously, I found a seat in K1. This joint puts every Nana gogo to shame, except maybe Billboard, Geisha, and Red Dragon. The vibe in the King’s bars is more comparable to The Pimp. It’s a raucous party, and the customers are typically those caution-to-the-wind types who have no compunction about blowing a large wad of cash if it’ll enhance the experience. It reminds me of the Rainbows circa 2011 when there were so many hot girls you didn’t know where to cast your gaze. Spoiled for choice, is what the English call it.
A swarthy cunt came in and ordered an unopened can of Coke. The barmaid brought him a glass with Coke and ice in it. He refused it. Evidently the douche thought the gogo might try to poison him or put drugs in his drink. Jesus, what a retard. Imagine being so stupid that you’d fear The King’s Group would jeopardize their business by slipping…what? A poop nugget? Molly? Roofies? What gogo could afford to waste drugs on randos and their colas? Fucking moronic.
After finishing up in K1 I’d downed eight drinks on the night and should’ve gone home, but I was curious how the New2 looked on its 2nd night so I hopped over there. ‘Twasn’t as busy as the previous night—at least, not when I arrived. Things did descend into chaos half an hour later. The roster was a beautiful mix of familiar faces and newhotties. Unfortunately Offy was there, and pounced on my from the stage like a ladypuma. There was so much hot ass in there I almost kicked Offy off her chair. In the end, I got her a tequila and OJ.
New2 is an interesting clash of clunge. Hotties from K1, the old K2, and K corner all work together in there now. It poses a problem for Seven, who could potentially drinks for all three sets of vajay. Needless to say I’m uncommonly popular in there. It’s a moneysuck situation for yours truly and I don’t know if I’m upset about it or excited beyond belief. I could easily Pong on a night and only visit that gogo. It’s a one-stop shop for all my favorite girls.
I’m going to throw something out there, and see if it sticks: lately I’m seeing a crazy number of gogo dancers sporting what I call “dumpster gut.” It’s that thing where, post childbirth, a lady’s midsection looks like she swallowed a fully-assembled Lego pirate ship. I blame the Covid lockdowns. Force people to stay indoors for a year and what’re they gonna do but hump each other? The upside is, 18 years from now there’s be an army of new pole kitties taking gogo stages all over Thailand. The downside is, in current year their moms look like an alien from the movie Alien is trying to scratch its way out of their uteri.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Sorry for all the typos. I didn’t proofread. Photos loosely connected to the contents of this blog can be found by scrolling to the bottom of this page.
Check back next Sunday for another summary of this redlight life. In the meantime, you can read more Bangkok-centric 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 monger material, along with these other profiles that’re chock full of photos of hotties:
@bar_thigh
@BangkokNightli2
Thai chick-related posters and prints on canvas can be purchased at
https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
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.
Pro Tip Post-Script: This tip isn’t for 99% of you mongers. It’s yet another message to the handful of retards who continue to make stupid comments on my X. Last week I posted a photo of a Paatpong gogo stage that was packed with hot dancers and some shitpile commented “No customers…..” Now, I’m not sure if the idiot was referring to the photo itself, but I don’t take photos of customers—unless they climb onstage. More likely, he’s trying to slag off Patpong, saying no customers go there. Look, fuckface, if you haven’t been there recently, then don’t comment. Because you end up looking like the stupid douchebag that you are. Most of the gogos in Patpong are off the rails busy. Are there bars that aren’t doing so well? Sure. Same as some bars in Cowboy and Nana who don’t get a lot of customers (you know which ones they are). But Patpong on the whole is as busy or busier than Nana and Cowboy. So if you’re a brain-dead cunt, and you tend to make moronic comments on social media, and you want to keep seeing my posts, don’t comment on them. I block people for the crime of being stupid.
