What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession.
I Ponged on Tuesday and saw the first indication of a low season slowdown. The gogos were only half full at 22.00. The Night Market foot traffic was a sparse, steady stream without a surge. Things picked up after 23.00. I was outside K1 with a Backwoods. At the table next to me, a loud, drunk, Middle Eastern-looking douchebag had a long fierce conversation with himself in English. At first, I thought he was on his phone, maybe using Bluetooth or something. But no. He had an argument with himself. It was crass and rude, and for a minute I thought he might be talking shit. It was hard to tell through my earbuds. I was about to break one of his ribs but then I realized he was just jabbering to no one. At that point I pivoted to Virgin, where Yok was back yokbloking me again. I tried to escape by retreating outside to sip a SoCo but she followed me. We sat together in silence for a good 20 minutes. I kept hoping a particular hotskinny who caught my eye some days ago would wander out but she never did. Not that I could’ve made a move. Not with Yok sitting there.
Last week I was sat with a galpal in a gogo. She didn’t ask for a tip or a drink. She just wanted to listen to my headphones (which happened to be playing Human League, just FYI) and suddenly one of her customers came so she excused herself to go hit him up for a ladydrink. That she would pass up trying to siphon money from me in favor of pilfering it from some doucher filled me with a sense of warmth. Later, she came by and handed me a bag of peanuts.
In New2, a gang of cunt Americans in Pittsburgh Steelers jerseys and backwards baseball caps made asses of themselves, shouting and high fiving like it was a goddam hockey match. I idly fingered the blade in my pocket and dreamed of sliding it into their livers.
The King’s Hotel and Sports Bar have each painted murals for decoration, mainly in their stairwells, just like Nana Plaza did. And although Shitbag Bob already tattled to the Nana owners about my nonplussed critique of their murals, it bears repeating in the light of Patpong’s better wall art. I’m not saying Nana’s paint job is bad. It’s just that the King’s is way better. (I guess you’d better go tattle to Nana again, Shitbag.)
While once again on the K1 terrace, I watched as the SuperPussy ping pong show did gangbuster business. It’s weird that the doorway to something that sleazy is right nextdoor to a family restaurant in the middle of a tourist-centric night market. Not unlike a butthole next to a vajay.
Around midweek, I schlepped to Soi Cowboy to check in with Dennis at The Dollhouse. But first, because Google says it’s one of the best restaurants in Bangkok, I stopped in at Indulge. The service was impeccable. They tie with Riddler for the best I’ve had in Thailand, in fact. If you want to be treated well, go to Indulge.
I had the Mediterranean lamb shank (580b) and petite sirah (330b) with couscous, chopped capsicum and zucchini. It was half submerged in a brown broth and veggie cubes. I had to inhale the couscous before it dissolved. The lamb was cooked perfectly, and fell off the bone. But the tangy, vegetable-heavy flavors nearly smothered the lamb. Only the wine rescued it. I should’ve opted for the lamb chops, but they were 980b. I blame myself for going cheap. Even so, after a bottle of still water (110b) and the service charge, it came to 1200b all-in. And because it was just one shank and a dollop of cous, I was till hungry when I left.
Cowboy was dead as a doornail at 20.30. I ambled down to Rainbow to check if any of my galpals were working. Six chubsters strained the integrity of the stage. The 2nd rota was skinnier but uninspiring. I was the lone customer until 21.00 when I left. After hanging with Dennis and a couple of Bangkok VIPs, I rocked up to a seat inside DH and a girl immediately shouted my name from the stage. It turned out to be Som, originally from Thigh Bar. She tried out for Seven’s harem in 2017 when she was much thinner, but didn’t make the cut. Since then, she’s been bucking for another audition, but that’ll never happen. In the economic hierarchy of potential pussy, my income and looks put me in the 9 or 10 range for concubines. Som ain’t there. But she’s a sweetheart, so I slipped her a hundy for old time’s sake. By the time I exited Cowboy, after being stopped three times by former Nana and Patpong girls, the redlight was rammed. I motaxi’d t’Pong and straight to the K1 bogs where three fat farang chicks were waiting to piss. The toilets there are unisex, and the look of horror on one fatty’s face as I shoved past her and straddled the urinal was priceless.
In New2, a girl I’d seen a hundred times and thought nothing of captured my attention, and I’ll tell you why. A year’s worth of pole dancing had turned her petite body into a lean, mean fuck machine. I wasn’t ready to test her for my harem but I wanted to plant the seed, so after a long staring contest, I slipped a tip in her bikini bottoms. That earned me her uninterrupted attention the remainder. I don’t know if I’ll pull the trigger. It depends on how much more defined her abs get. This caused another girl onstage to fly into a jealous rage. Which is crazy, because she had no claim on me outside of a few flirtatious gogo encounters. I never even bought her a drink, let alone barfined her. The mental gymnastics these girls go through in order to claim regulars can sometimes reach the point of hysteria. When I paid my bill and went to the toilet, the crazy one followed me. If not for the intervention of the bathroom attendant, I think she might’ve attacked me. This girl I’d barely paid any attention to. It just goes to show, regardless of what continent you’re on, bitches be crazy. Oh, and it’s worth mentioning, said crazy girl is smoking hot. It’s enough to drive a man mad.
In King’s Corner, a girl I’d chased for years when she was in a different gogo—and much hotter—and who blew me off every time suddenly locked in like a laser guided missile. And no wonder. It’s low season, and she’s a shadow of her former hot self. This happens often. When I make my initial concubine offer, girls are sometimes too shortsighted to know what it means—namely, a years-long gravy train in exchange for sporadic love-making. By the time they realize their mistake and try to worm their way back in, it’s too late. Time has done to their body what it did to my brain, draining it of what made it worthwhile in the first place.
Later in the week, I had an epiphany about gogo dancer Yok who yokblocks me in Virgin. All this time, I was chagrined by it, sulking in the bar with her sat next to me, resting her head on my shoulder. I thought she was preventing me from collecting new concubines by staking claim in front of all the other girls. But I’d forgotten that women—even Thai women—are psychos. They are attracted to men who already have a wife or GF (or in this case, a gogo lap-sitter) because in their fucked-up brains, they find greater value in a man that other women like. And to Yok’s credit, she never asks for a drink. She expects a tip, but nothing more. And what I buy with my money is the envious, greedy stares of half a dozen other dancers. By sitting with Yok but making eyes at other dancers, they become involuntarily moist. The other night, I stared down two girls while Yok rubbed my leg. Then I paid my bill, paid Yok (I accidentally tipped her 500, and the sweetheart handed it back and said, “Are you sure?” God bless the honest Thais), and took my drink to a high top outside the bar. Within seconds, the first girl I stared down came rushing out, searching the terrace for me. When she spotted me, she came right over. I handed her my phone without saying a word, and she typed in her Line ID, then went to sit with her friends. Two minutes later, the other girl I stared down came out, looking around, spotted me, looked away, then looked back, then looked at her feet, then looked at me again. I beckoned her over and handed her my phone. She added her Line, and I realized I’d discovered a fool-proof tool for reeling in gogo hussies with zero effort: a female wingman.
One crazy thing I saw in Virgin was a gogo dancer buffet lineup like they regularly do for Japanese customers, only this time it was for three fat, disheveled, douchey-looking Americans.
Despite needing to save cash for my Cambodia trip, I ventured out again after a concubine appointment to buy water and popcorn, and wound up at K1. There were no seats so I decided to pop outside for a b ruskie. First though, I noticed a tourist dancing onstage, and while this usually infuriates me, I saw it was a middle-aged Asian lady. In fact, she might’ve even been Thai. And her dance moves were pretty good. For once in my life, I didn’t hate seeing a tourist dancing on a gogo stage.
As I turned to head back out, the boss grabbed me and ushered me to the bar where he said something to the bartender. I thought he was telling her to deliver my drink to the terrace, but it turned out he told her to put my drink on his tab. In fact, he bought all my K1 drinks last week. I’ve no idea why. The food court and beer garden were overflowing with tourists. As I sat alone at my table, six Nipons came out for a fag. Two took the empty chairs at my table while the other two stood directly behind me. This happens often with Asian dudes in the redlight and is something I’ll never understand. A Westerner would never presume to join someone at their table, and would at least ask first before invading a stranger’s space like that. Not the Nipons. It might be because they don’t view non-Japanese people as worthy of respect. That’s my guess, anyway. After those gents went back inside, another Tokyo native came out and stood next to my table smoking a joint. The beer hostess tried her best to plug her nose without looking like she was plugging her nose. She kept glancing at me with a knowing smirk. Although ganja is—at least for now—decriminalized, many Thais can’t break from the stigma associated with it. Don’t get me wrong, most have embraced it. But the fresh-off-the-farm girls still giggle at the prospect of sparking up in public.
The roster at K1 continues to astound. Yes, there are some gross ones and fatties. But King’s is still a place where the hotties outnumber the uglies—you know, like it was everywhere in Thailand back in the day. The King’s Group is like a hotness time machine. And my eye doesn’t even see the less-attractive girls. They’re apparitions. They don’t exist in my purview.
One night in New2, a very fetching filly accosted me while I sat in a corner sipping vodka. I was looking down at my phone when a shadow fell across me. I looked up and a tall, lithe, beautiful girl in white lingerie was grinning down at me. I removed an earbud. “I remember yooo!” she said. “From where?” I asked. “Arai na?” she replied. “You know me from where?” I asked again. She held up her finger and made a circle, as if to say, “From all around here.” “Where did you work before?” I inquired. “Only here,” she said. OK, so, she knew me from repeated visits to this bar. “What’s my name?” I asked. “I don know,” she said. Then I realized she didn’t know me at all and this was a play to make me one of her regulars. I handed her my phone and as she typed in her Line, another of her previous customers walked up. She squealed with delight and threw an arm around his neck while clandestinely returning my phone behind her back. Goddam, what a pro.
On Saturday I Ponged again, and the redlight was so jammed I thought I must be wrong about finally hitting low season, though the tourists were made up of 90% Japanese and Chinese. Maybe it’s just that this continent hasn’t slowed-to-low yet. It might still be the aftereffects of Covid. After all, the lockdown was longer and more severe in Asia. Maybe people are still venting their pent-up perversions.
In other news, after years of unchanging coital bliss with my concubines, a few have started to take steps to evolve our liaisons. My Number 1 has fenagled herself into coming over three times per week—twice for sex, and once so I can tutor her little sister in English. When we fornicate (the conc, not her little sibling), she insists on coming at least two times. When it’s over, I get in the shower and she washes her minge on the toilet with the bum gun. I lean out and hand her the soap, she lathers up, and then hands it back. It’s all very routine. We’re like an old married couple, except we live apart and I bang other chicks.
One of my longest-suffering concs—a lesbian who ditches her tomboy to come see me—who for years stuck primarily to BJs, has suddenly become very randy. She now asks to be routed on every visit, and orgasms in uncontrollable spasms that leave the sheets wet and me shocked and exhausted.
If you’re a faithful reader, you know that lately I’ve tried to put my finger on the reason for my loss of urgency to hit the redlight. I pondered whether it was age, or me finally finishing sowing those wild oats, or if not having a day job delete the need to blow off steam after a hellish day at work. But the truth is, while the King’s Group rule the gogos now, and sitting in one of their bars is a feast for the senses, nothing compares to the redlights of yore. A decade ago, we had havens like Electric Blue. Their roster was a team like no other. My core besties Bum, Ploy, Momay, Taitle, and Oil were heartstoppers. And two doors down, The Strip had Mai, Biw, Bow, and Underbite. All were exquisite. All sat with me and my drinking buddies for hours, getting drunk, goofing around. And they were all spectacular in the sack (specsackular for short, copyright BKK7). Now that those days are permanently over, the feverish addition that drove me to the redlight nightly for so many years has faded. I guess the adage is true—nothing gold can stay.
Last week, my mum emailed to tell me about one of her lifelong friends, who’s just been diagnosed with cancer. It’s a weird type, with tumors growing all over her face. This lady had polio as a child and lost the use of one arm. Last year, she caught her husband of 30 years trying to hire a prostitute. A day later, he got run over by a truck and has been in hospital ever since, draining their savings with full-time nursing care. It makes a man think. My biggest problems are trying and failing to get rid of a couple concubines, arthritis in my elbow, and butt brain (throwback to last week’s post). I know it’s only a matter of time before everything goes tits up, but in the meantime, life’s a bowl of cherries. We should all be grateful for every good day.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is Part 1 of a massive gallery of XXX Lounge photos from 2022. You can view it here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-xxx-lounge-2022-part-1/
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 read Stickman, just know that nothing he says about Patpong is true. He lives outside Thailand, so in order to drudge up fodder for his weekly, he relies on informants to tell him what to write. His Patpong informer is a fat albino rat named Shitbag Bob. Shitbag works for two gogos in the Pong, so predictably, every time Stickman writes something about it, it’s “Ohh, this bar and that bar are doing great! and all the other bars are terrible.” It’s actually the opposite. Last week he slagged off Pink Panther because they turned down his offer to do PR for them. Shitbag is a lowlife, childish, vindictive cunt and a liar. It’s just something to bear in mind.
