What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
Well, my plans to stay out of the redlight failed miserably last week. Sunday I tried to stay in, but Jack Nites messaged to say he was doing a photo shoot in New2 (that’s the new King’s Castle 2 gogo bar on Patpong Soi 1) so I put on some pants and plunged into the rain. An upside to Ponging in a downpour is, there are fewer cunt tourists to contend with. A downside is, there also tends to be less clunge on a given stage. I parked outside the old closed KII with a Drew Estate Papas Fritas and a b ruskie. The barmaid did what she does half the time, which is bring me my cocktail plus a bottle of Singha, for some reason. I never order a Singha, but somehow it ends up on my table. I’m not sure if it’s chronic senility or if she’s just pretending to misunderstand my order to earn more for the bar. I handed it to Jack when he arrived, knowing that by tagging along with him to his shoot I’d be handed at least two free SMLs. He hit the King’s Sports Bar first and then New2. Then we popped into K1 and K Corner to check the talent. The King’s bars seemed unaffected by the rain, but Virgin was feeling the pain with two 6-girl rotations and few punters. But that’s par for the course in the Pong on a Sunday. When Jack went home, I slipped back into K1 where new bar staff didn’t know me and it took three people to rustle up a SML. Everywhere I went on Sunday, the girls substituted wai’s for fist bumps, which is something I can get behind. I’m often embarrassed when wai’d. I’m just a gogo rat. There’s no need for formality with this mongrel monger.
On Monday, I again tried and failed to stay out of the redlight after trying to get some live music by hitting up Groovin’ High and finding it closed. As it’s just a few meters from Patpong, I had no choice but to King’s it up again, first at K1 with a Drew Estate mini Tabak and b ruskie, then to New2 again for the fourth day in a row. The sheer amount of hotskinny in there gave me vertigo. Or maybe—and this is just a theory—it was the pheromone overdose emanating from the stage. It’s intoxicating.
Last week, some dude messaged me on X and said, “Can you tell me which bar to go to? I enjoyed (bar name redacted) but I didn’t like (bar name redacted).” I didn’t reply because 1—I’m not a tour guide and 2—it’s impossible to know which bars a random stranger will like and not like. Are you into fatties? Are you a cheapskate? Are you repulsive? Do you understand varying Asian cultures? Are you a cornfed Midwestern American incel? Are you a douchebag from Delhi? Are you shopping for a shorttime bang? These are just a few factors that’ll determine where and how and whether you’ll have a good time in the redlight.
Thai-owned gogos are definitely a different animal from farang-owned ones. There’s a number of small cultural speedbumps one must navigate in those bars, not the least of which is Thai-owned bars tend to cater to Nipon and Sino customers, so uninitiated farang can sometimes struggle in that environment. I know dudes who’ve been in the redlight scene for years who still don’t know how to come correct in Thai-owned establishments. A good example is the gutless, lowlife dirtbag shit-for-brains who writes for Dave the Rave. In addition to being a talentless gutter rat, he can’t hold his own in any gogo that falls outside the narrow scope of his milquetoast comfort zone.
I counted eight newhotties in Virgin—again—an astounding number for a rainy Monday. It’s fascinating to watch the ebb and flow of hot girls in the redlight. PreCovid, things were looking bleak. The hotties all seemed to be elsewhere. But the scamdemic sure put every Thai chick in her proper place—for hotskinnies, that place is on a gogo stage.
On Tuesday I was yet again in the fucking Pong. It’s like a redlight supernova, and I’m trapped in its gravity well. I can’t break free. The actual reason for going was more mundane. The random girl from K Corner who I somehow inexplicably banged last week messaged, begging to come over again. I didn’t want her to, so I said I’d come buy her a few drinks in the bar. Then I scuttled t’Pong for the fifth day in a row. She was clingy, the girl, and she addresses me as “darling” in text messages. Jeez, I thought I outgrew that shtick a decade ago. I also hit New2 again because why not? The rosties (roster of hotties) keeps on growing in there. If I were a few years younger, I’d probably be tearing through that place like a maniac. Instead, I smile back at hungry-eyed gals and smack the bums of the KII vets whom I consider friends at this point.
The Virgin stage was once again ignited by a gang of wicked hotties. There’s a regular dancer in there who used to work at The Strip long ago. In 2019 I auditioned her for my harem but she didn’t make the cut. Since then, she pretends not to know me, except on nights when she’s gagging for a drink. Then suddenly we’re besties. That’s happened with a lot of the Virgin girls. During high season, they were too good for Seven. Last week, it was all wai’s, fist bumps, and come-hither looks. But as I’m currently supporting two single moms and putting a girl through uni (in the form of my harem triumvirate) those previously pretentious gals are SOL.
But I didn’t just Pong on Tuesday. I also visited Nana (more on that later) and Dennis at Dollhouse Soi Cowboy. The joint was full of locals who all wanted to know where I’d been the past two months. It was cool to see familiar faces and chat with people who’re actually worth the time. And speaking briefly of Cowboy, the low season slump didn’t seem to touch it—at least, not on the night. I mean, I’m not a bar owner and don’t count the register at the end of the evening, but to my semi-trained eye, the redlight appeared to be buzzing.
On Wednesday I had an early concubine and then skipped over to Groovin’ High for the live music fix I’d missed on Monday. The lovely Pop Monpruesa was on vocals while her partner Sopon Suwannakit tickled the ivories. The vibe was sweet and whimsical. I could’ve been in a 40s-era Hong Kong club, just before the communist overthrow. Two unwashed farang talked through the entire show. One sat cross-legged like he had no genitals. And he wore sandals, which I guess confirms his lack of genitals. And he was the louder of the two. I wanted to bash a chair over his head. Another dude wore denim shorts and a rayon button down shirt like it’s still 1990. I pondered how he’d made it this far in life without being murdered.
Although Groovin’s signature cocktail menu is vaclectic (vast and eclectic) I’ve zeroed in on a favorite. It’s called Angel Eyes (absinthe, dark beer cordial, cherry and coffee liqueurs). It doesn’t hurt that the name is also the name of a song from the “Leaving Las Vegas” soundtrack, sung by Sting. It’s a truly gorgeous concoction. An elixir with extraordinary traits. I paired it with a Backwoods Stout cigarillo, which is a bit like casting pearls before swine. But sometimes mixing lowbrow with highbrow is just what the doctor ordered. They went together like two teenagers in a Journey power ballad. I inexplicably follow that with a glass of Chateau Vieux Georget 2018, which was magnificent.
Then I hobbled to K1 to peruse the stage. A girl came and sat next to me. I’d no idea who she was. Then she started yammering and I realized it was the random dancer I’d met by chance a few nights before while smoking on the terrace. I decided to do the same again and she promptly followed, talking my ear off the entire time. Mid-convo, she casually mentioned she’s a lesbian, and my interest in her suddenly jumped from 1 to 10. Since moving to TLOS, one of my all-time favorite kinks has been pulling lesbians into my harem. There’s nothing like the ego boost that comes from seducing to bed a woman who’s sworn off men. I imagine it’s akin to turning an enemy nation’s spy into a double agent. And it takes more than a little talent to pull off. And so I set to work lining my tiger trap, a hole she will eventually wander into, except instead of shit-covered bamboo shards, she’ll land on my wang.
After leaving the lez, I skipped over to New2 (that made 6 nights in a row). The joint was rammed. The stage, for those who’ve not yet visited, resembles the tiers of a wedding cake, or a very hiso birthday cake, which to my mind made the girls seem like tall, slender, sexy candles. 25 in a rotation. That made for a crowded fucking cake, I tell you what. A few of the old KII girls have taken up the habit of sitting with me between rotations. I think I offer a sense of familiarity that carries over from the old location. I asked them how they liked the new bar. They said their job is harder now because there are more girls and more customers. Which is a good problem to have if you’re any other person in the world than a lazy Bangkok gogo dancer.
Virgin was packed as well with a raunchy stage full of randy minge. A swarthy farang had a girl over for a drink and couldn’t stop touching her. He rand his hands all over her, stroking her ass, hugging and kissing her. Clearly he’d been starved of physical contact with a female for a long, long time. And that’s what makes Thailand so magical. Every affecton-replete sad sack can get on a plane, leave the misandry in his home country, cross half the globe, and touch a girl. It’s the physical manifestation of the phrase, “dream come true,” in more ways than one. Yok came over again and yokblocked me—again. Not that I’m up for chasing new tail in Virgin, though hoolie-goolie didgeridoo, what a collection of hotskinny. I could stare for days (and I do).
Thursday marked seven days I a row hitting New2. My concubine arrived late due to a rain delay. She finished up servicing me around 22.00 and for no justifiable reason I headed t’Pong. At my age, a week straight of redlighting had me running on fumes. I did a Liga/b ruskie outside K1 and afterward grabbed a SML inside the gogo, where a low-lit erotic T’n’A show was in full swing, rife with hot, lithe bodies and thrusting hips. A drunk, longhaired Nipon laid his head in a gogo’s lap while she stroked his forehead. ‘Twas another example of the bereft-of-touch male who gets more from the redlight than a quick lay. More than sex, the balm in this Gilead is the effect of affection. “Effection” for short, copyright BKK7.
Then I sidled to the new gogo, where three former conquests and four galpals were packed into the same rotation. For me, drinking in the Pong is like being the popular dude at a college house party. Every chick is amiable. Everyone wants to hang. We catch up. They want to know what’s new in my life. It’s essentially the opposite of Nana and Cowboy.
After seven straight nights in the redlight, my Friday was a non-starter. I fell asleep watching “The Gentlemen” and woke up at 1 am.
On Saturday I was rested enough to Pong again and so headed out at 20.00 after a brief concubine session. Jack Nites messaged to say he’d be taking photos inside King’s Sports Bar, so I smoked a quick stogie before setting out to meet him. In K1, Offy and the lesbian had to fight for my attention. Both failed, though I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t fun. In New2, a brand new tourist awkwardly navigated the lioness den. Luckily he found a girl who did 90% of the work, easing his anxiety, massaging his limbs, listening to his Western come-ons. ‘Twas beautiful to watch his initiation into the redlight. It was clear no woman had ever attended to him in that way. He sat frozen in a state of rhapsody, seemingly unable to believe what was happening to him was actually happening to him.
These days, nearly half of gogo rosters don’t want their photo taken for PR. Or more accurately, half the girls’ Thai boyfriends don’t want pictures of their gals plastered all over Facebook and X. So getting girls to pose is a lot harder in current year than it ever has been before. But Jack managed to coax half a dozen or so to step in front of his lens. Then we enjoyed a few free beers courtesy of the mamasan, and I was attacked by a hotskinny who jumped in my lap and refused to leave. Thank God she was only 35 kilos.
In other news, a walking yeast infection–a PR photographer for some gogos and the biggest asshole in Bangkok, and to whom I’ll refer from here on as Shitbag—spread a rumor on Tuesday that I’d been banned from Nana Plaza for the crime of not liking the new murals. For years, this cocksucker has devoted a lot of energy to talking shit about me to anyone in the redlight who would listen. He’s widely despised among the nightlife set, but he’s their only option for photos and he writes for Stickman, so people have no choice but to put up with him despite the obvious fact that his photos are utter shit and his writing is pedestrian and puerile. Now, between you and me, I couldn’t give two shits if I’m banned from Nana. I haven’t had a fun night there for many years. But because Shitbag is a smegma stain in a fat chick’s knickers, I wanted to prove he’s a liar for the umpteenth time, so I immediately went there, and walked in with no problem. And that’s where the story took an amusing turn.
While hanging out with BK Prince, the cunt in question walked in. I wanted to drag him into the street and beat him into a coma. What I actually did was give him a friendly slap on the back of his head. Instead of manning up, he immediately ran like a pussy to a security guard and tried to have me thrown out. The Prince intervened and let me stay, but I couldn’t stomach being around that human venereal wart, so I bailed t’Pong. The Prince made him shake his hand, promising to let it go. Instead, the next day he ran and cried like a chlamydic vagina to Panthera, who apparently agreed to ban me. It seems like a weak reason, but at least it’s slightly less ridiculous than ‘not liking the murals.’ And I don’t blame them. I’ve never had a negative thing to say about Nana’s bosses. The only asshole in this story is Shitbag. Anyway, it’s their loss. Now their only advocate is a mentally retarded douche nozzle. Plus, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
You see, I’ve only ever gone to Nana out of a sense of obligation to you, reader, to report on the bars there. Aside from hanging with Joey D in Angelwitch, I don’t enjoy it. Nana is for tourists and cunts like Shitbag. Now, I finally have an excuse not to go. A couple friends messaged to say, “Are you bummed?” and “Don’t try to sneak in.” Bummed? Sneak in? Are you high? Let me restate for the record: I couldn’t give a shit.
And since I know he reads my blog every week, I want to say thank you for the get-out-of-Nana free card, Shitbag. You’ve freed me of the obligation, and I’m grateful. The upside for you is, now you have one place you can go where I won’t kick your ass. The downside for readers is, they won’t get real reporting on Nana anymore. Now I have to figure out how to get banned from Soi Cowboy. Maybe if I knock Shitbag out in front of Suzy Wong’s…
In his blog today, Stickman erroneously referred to this whole dust-up as a “rivalry.” Wrong. A rivalry implies that Shitbag and I are peers, striving for the same brass ring. Nothing could be further from the truth. I don’t do what Shitbag does—plugging his employers’ bars and disguising it as redlight ‘news’—and I never want to. Shitbag can’t do what I do, which is write interesting content. He stupidly thinks we’re rivals, which is why he’s tried to get every bar owner in Bangkok to hate me by spreading slander for six straight years. I’ve tried time and again to get it through his moronic brain that we are not in competition, but to no avail. He’s just too fucking dumb, which is why the last smack was from me. Update: I had originally written a parody song about him and attached it to this blog, but the cunt threatened to file defamation charges, so I deleted it. Apologies to anyone who didn’t get to hear it. Although as someone who’s been defaming me (and others) behind my back for years, and as a foreigner working illegally in the redlight, he should probably think twice about getting litigious. I find it continually amazing that this fuckwit 1–can’t see that he’s just as guilty of everything I do that makes him so crazy and 2–he brought all this on himself. I’m only reacting to his shitty behavior. He could make it all go away by shutting his dirty mouth and not talking about me but he just. Can’t. Do it.
It seems my efforts to whittle down my harem failed as terrifically as my goal to not Pong every night. I tried to keep two, but another managed to hang on. And for the first time ever, I don’t have a wandering eye for someone new. I’m content with my current concubines. I suppose it’s what a happily married man must feel like, except instead of one ball and chain, I have three. Call it trinogamy. I didn’t go looking for it, but here I am, happy to be faithful to three vajays. I gaze at dozens of PYTs nightly. But all urges to play the field have waned. I guess I’m a three-woman man now.
Despite the owner of my building explicitly saying no one can rent Air-BnBs, my floor now has three condos with loud stupid tourists. They shout, they party, they bang pots and pans, they have robust conversations in the hallway. If I go to the redlight and get annoyed by tourists, it’s my fault. I chose to go where they are. To have them invading my personal space is a whole new step in my hatred for them. Maybe I’ll reconsider moving to Pattaya. It will happen eventually–it’s just a matter of when.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is from the now-closed Glamour A-Gogo, Patpong. You can view it here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-glamour-a-gogo/
But only if you become a Member. The price tag is $1 per month, and new content is added weekly.
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-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: If you own a bar, restaurant, or gogo in Bangkok or Pattaya, and you’ve made the mistake of hiring a shit bag, you’re probably regretting it now. His photos are terrible, he lies about his reach (his online presence is pathetic), and he’s a stupid, self-absorbed asshole—the biggest asshole, in fact, in the whole of Thailand, and that’s saying something. As an alternative, allow me to recommend my buddy Jack Nites. He takes beautiful pictures and he’s a genuine pleasure to work with.
