What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession.
This is gonna be a short post, because last week, I tried to stay out of the redlight. Retirement has put me on a budget. I can’t carry out my plan of traveling around Asia this year and also monger every night. Plus, I’m too old now to sling clunge around seven days a week like I used to. I’m trying to slow down, get sensible, and live a quieter, gentler life. So I only redlighted twice between last Sunday’s post and today.
The dog days of summer are here. It’s the time when life in the redlight takes on a kind of “Groundhog Day” feel, where the mongering, the weeks, the bars, the tits and asses all blur together.
One night in the middle of a GOT episode I was hit with boredom like a board to the head. In 10 minutes I was walking t’Pong whilst lighting up a Tabak Dulce and planted myself where I could sip a b ruskie and watch the crowd in the beer garden. A beautiful farang couple–I’d peg them as either Italian or Portuguese (they looked like a couple of models)–got coaxed into superpussy to be mentally scarred. An equally Mediterranean-looking group of fatties sat nearby but their only interest was rotie and fried cheese balls. I drove them away with my cigar smoke. They scowled and held their noses as they went. I met their gazes stoically.
Then I popped into K1 where there were already 20 girls onstage at 19.45. I meant to get food first, but the lure of the gogo was too strong. I don’t know what it is about the redlight, but the minute I sit down, my blood pressure seems to wane, my plus and breathing slow, and I feel a sense of completion like a square peg sinking into a square hole. The menagerie of hot asses (menasserie for short, copyright BKK7) sate my animalistic yen as serenely as a tranquilizer dart to the hide of a rhino.
An old concubine accosted me, and we retreated to the terrace, she with a cocktail and me with a double scotch, because they were out of cognac and you can’t drink a b ruskie with a Cuban H Upmann. Before even lighting it, the smell took me back to so many other times and places where I smoked one: La Rambla Barcelona, Milan, Mexico City, Interlaken, San Francisco, Pismo Beach, Panama, Phuket. The girl sampled my beverage and instantly regretted it. Her eyes began to water and she stifled a cough. She wanted to hear what was pumping in my headphones so I shared one wit her. The tourists stared. The Thais joked that we were in love. “She Sells Sanctuary” by The Cult came on. She asked the name of the song and I told her. “What?” she asked, “Strawberry sang sua she?” It was the most adorable thing I heard all night.
The new blood flooding into Patpong is hard to keep up with. I’ve had to revert to old pick-up lines and long explanations of who I am and why veterans approach me with an air of reverence. It’s exhausting. For two nights in a row, Yok was not in Virgin to Yokblock me from talking to other girls. I got the Line ID’s of a couple of newhotskinnies and reconnected with some old friends whom I hadn’t spoken to for months because Yok Yokopolized all my time. One was a former dancer at….a different Patpong gogo, I’m not going to say the name just in case her old boss reads this and comes looking for her. She’s a tiny little thing, and back in 2017 I had the chance to nail her but passed, because at the time I had too many concubines already and could barely keep up. And even though it’s seven years later, she’s only gotten prettier while staying the same weight. I started making plans to put her in the rotation, though at the same time I spotted another PYT—just as skinny—who looked younger and less broken-in. This is something I call a Thailand problem. I was faced with the dilemma of who to chase. And sure, a man could easily have both, but if you’re a local in the BK redlight, you know the kind of headache that ensues when you start up nailing two girls from the same bar. You’re basically asking for catfights. But I got girl number 2’s Line anyway, opting to postpone the decision and sleep on it first.
On the 4th of July I failed to plan and so jetted to the nearest American restaurant to me, which is the Roadhouse in Silom. They did precisely nothing special for Independence Day, so I got a half rack and potato with a Crispy Boy Helles Lager by some Thai craft brewing company. I was physically despondent from my series of poor choices. 900b all-in.
Then I shuffled to King’s Corner knowing I’d actually be early enough to get a seat. Not a single galpal, former bedfellow, or future prospect was there. That’s the flipside of the coin of coming early. All the hotties show up late.
A skinny white dude of about 20 wearing white linen trousers and a white long-sleeved linen shirt walked in, refused to sit or order a drink, and stared at the stage for about 5 minutes. It was clear he was shorttime shopping but didn’t want to buy a drink. He called a girl over but communication was zero so she got her phone to Google Translate everything. I didn’t wait to see the outcome and skipped over to New2. Five minutes later white linens arrived, did a lap around the stage, and left. Despite there being 10 open seats, a Chinese loner sat down right next to me and every few minutes cast a sideways glance my way. I think he was looking for a wingman. Seven may be many things, but wingman is not one of them. Just like in K Corner, there were no hotties in New2, at least, not that I saw. I necked my beer and skedaddled. I grabbed a SoCo and sat outside Virgin to smoke a Backwoods Honey Bourbon and who should walk by with a tiny gogo dancer on his arm but white linens. I think he got her from Kinky Girls, and judging by how young she looked I guessed he had a Lolita fetish.
Virgin was packed with hot tail. I started getting Line IDs and it was a bit of cloak-and-dagger to get one without another noticing. I didn’t want to advertise to them all that I’m a whore collector. It was a night of clandestine Lines (clandestLines for short). One such case was a PYT who gladly gave me her info after a short intro and convo. The next day, I messaged her and said “If you need money you can come to my room.” She replied, “What kind of girl do you think I am?” and I wanted to say, “Well, you work in a gogo bar…also, I saw you get barfined last week, so I think you’re the exact kind of girl that you exactly are.” But instead I replied, “My apartment is dirty. If you clean it, I’ll give you 500 baht.” She replied, “I don’t understand” and then I ghosted her. A day later, she texted again, asking to start over with introductions. Turns out she’s that kind of girl, and just wanted to play vanilla for a second.
After Virgin I swung to a very crowded K1. Twas 99% Nipon with one gang of Thai mafiosos and one farang (me). I texted Offy and said, “I’m in your bar…where are you?” 10 seconds later she plopped down next to me. I handed her a drink slip from our previous meet which she’d dropped. She gave me a big hug and we chatted for a bit. Then I bailed to Groovin’ Hight for some life tunes. Later in the night, Offy messaged “I love you” and then quickly unsent it. Deep down, she knows there’s no future for us outside of ladydrinks in the gogo.
Groovin’ High is a date location. Across from me, a Japanese guy and his Thai date chatted to each other in broken English. An old white couple split a glass of sparkling without saying a word to each other. A triple date of thais endured the vibe of one girl who clearly didn’t like her companion. I sat aloof with my wine, hoping no one would talk to me. A pianist, upright bass player, and female singer breezed through a list of covers from Sade to bossa nova versions of Henry Mancini. I was immediately transported to a memory of a tiny tapas bar on Mallorca, just outside the Miro Museum, where I met two of the most beautiful women I’d ever laid eyes on. I didn’t speak enough Spanish and they barely spoke English, but we managed to find common ground after a bottle of grappa. I composed a poem for one of them on a napkin. I don’t know if she ever got it translated. The trio ended their set with Killing Me Softly which nearly knocked me out of my chair. Overall, ‘twas a sublime night of sex sirens and song.
After my subpar 4th I woke up on Friday still craving American BBQ, so I hopped a Bolt to Billy’s Smokehouse to have my bank account assraped in exchange for some awesome wagyu brisket, smoked chicken wings, Mac and cheese, corn salad (mistakenly thinking it would be something like a casserole), and cornbread. Initially I ordered the beef ribs, which I’d had before at Billy’s and liked, but prices have risen significantly since that visit. The server said it’d be 3,000b for just the ribs. So I opted for a small brisket instead. First, I want to say that I didn’t even finish off half the meal. I waddled out with a take-away bag, and I was food drunk. Food drunk is when the taste and richness of the food is so over-the-top that the Xanadu-like pleasure spasm caused by eating it mimics the feeling of intoxication.
The brisket was absolutely divine. The smoked wings were transcendent, the cornbread and mac n cheese seductively satisfying. I washed it all down with a Freshly Squeezed IPA. In all, with ++ added, the meal came to 1,970b and it was worth every satang. I’ll try to post a more detailed Substack about it this week, if I can get off my lazy ass.
In other news, I’m still adjusting to not having a day job. For example, Fridays are no longer fun. As the band Loverboy pointed out, everybody’s working for the weekend. Friday is the night before a morning with no alarm clock, so for the 9-to-5 set, it’s party time. But when every morning is a no-alarm morning, what’s left to make it special? Nothing. In fact, I prefer to stay in on weekends now, opting instead for quieter redlight nights with fewer locals on the piss and less competition for the attention of gogo dancers. Having said that, I now never know what day it is so for all I know, I am out on a Friday. Last night (Saturday) I spent the whole redlight night thinking it was Thursday.
When you reach your 50s, you get something I call “butt brain.” This is where your colon takes on a mind of its own and knows when you’re not near a safe toilet. In those instances, it keeps everything on lockdown. But when you’re safe at home, or in close proximity, your butt can intuit that, and goes from reliable to defiant, and there’s nothing the rest of your body can do about it. Your intestines do what they want, and what they want is to explode. As a retiree, I spend most of my time near a comfortable toilet so I’m in a constant state of sphincterlaxation. So far, the tenuous ceasefire between my butt brain and my real brain has held whilst I’m away from home. But it’s only a matter of time before I start feeling comfortable enough in the redlight for my ass to think it can act the fool. I’d call it an ass armistice, or assmistice for short, copyright BKK7.
In last week’s post I mentioned trying to chase down a hot little newbie in K1 and not seeing her for days after our initial meeting. I finally figured out why a couple nights ago when I stormed The Castle not 30 seconds after they opened and she was already sat with a fat Nipon who kept her with him for an hour. When he finally left, she walked 2 meters before getting grabbed by another fat Nipon who barfined her on the spot. I decided then to cross her off my to-do list. I don’t need the aggravation. Competing with half the population of Osaka for this girl’s cooter? Thanks but no thanks.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is a photo roll of the dancers at XXX Lounge during Covid. For a year, the gogos remained open but the govt forced the girls to wear cocktail dresses. There were no tourists, but the ladies and I managed to have fun anyway. You can view it here:
but only if you become a Member. The price tag is $1 per month, and new content is added weekly. I’m too dumb to figure out how to link the weekly posts to a single button on my website, so I post the links on my social every Friday, and provide a summary of all posts at the end of each month. Sorry for the inconvenience.
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’re in the gogo and you make eyes at a dancer onstage, but she ignores you, one of two things is happening. Either she’s not interested or she’s playing coy. To know if it’s the latter, watch the girl dancing next to her. If your girl does all she can to avoid eye contact, but her friend watches you like a hawk while whispering in your girl’s ear, you’re in. The girlfriend is watching you to see how often you look at your target, and relaying those statistics to her. When the rotation ends, call her over and buy her a drink.
