What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession.
Sticky enough for ya? Now these hot days is the mad blood stirring, as Shakespeare would’ve said about Bangkok in the summertime.
Back in high school, in 1980s Los Angeles, the football team would do something called “2-a-days.” That’s when the team would practice once in the morning when it was still slightly cool, then take a break, avoiding the afternoon temps and the smog, then practice again later that evening as the sun went down. Flash forward to Bangkok 2024 and I’m doing 2-a-days again, only in Patpong. I start with a morning stroll that takes me to a table at Shenanigan’s where I have a keto breakkie (eggs, bacon, sausage, blood pudding, mushrooms, asparagus, black coffee) and futz around online for a bit. Then I either put away a couple of pints or have a few more cups of java before shuffling home for a nap. After that, a conc visits, and then I nightPong for a mongering session. The difference between the Pong in the daytime vs when the redlight is on and pumping is like the difference between a cold shower and a sauna. Whilst walking the sois of The Pong in the day, there’s a palpable tension in the air—like a concert arena before the doors open. The sense of potential rests in the atmosphere. You can breathe it in. The soi’s deserted, save for a couple of dirty massage barkers and the odd motorbike taxi. Everyone wai’s Seven in the daylight, just like at night. These fleshy folds of farang are equally familiar around the clock in that part of town. If you’ve ever sat in the beer garden at around 17.00 and watch the street come to life, you know what it’s like. The redlight takes on its promiscuous air a little at a time, like layers of frosting spread over a cake. Things get naughty in increments as the light fades from the sky. I’m now a fixture in both states of Patpong’s 24 Hours—I bear witness to Jekyll and to Hyde.
It’s not what I expected my late 50s to look like, but every day I that I can wake up without a day job and an ugly, domineering cow in my bed and mewling offspring sucking my bank account dry, I thank the Good Lord above. And before you flood my X with comments like “Having kids is the best thing a man can do in life,” I feel you. I even believe you. But that’s not the hand I was dealt. I’ve been bluffing my way through this poker game called life with just a pair of jokers, and I’ve never once been dealt a good hole card. At least, not until I boarded a one-way Thai Airways flight from LAX to BKK back in 2010. That was an all-in play that turned the whole game around.
On Monday I met up with an old Thai lady-friend because I promised to get her a job interview at my buddy’s restaurant. Once that good deed was done, I hoped to Pong, but it was way too early. I figured I could sneak in a quick cigar on the K1 terrace. Even though they weren’t open, I knew they’d pour me a cocktail and let me sit outside. The Night Market began to fill with tourists, flitting to and fro like fish getting lost in an aquarium.
At 18.30 the sky opened up and nearly drowned the whole of Soi 1. I planted roots on the terrace and went through several glasses of beer while listening to the rhythm of the pounding storm. These days when it rains, knots the size of golf balls swell up in my elbows. I think it’s the price for lifting free weights from age 13 to 40. It rained so hard that by their 20.00 open, K1 had only five girls onstage. Virgin had zero. K Corner had two. New2 wasn’t open yet. So at 20.30 I limped to sunrise for a carne asada chimichanga and margarita on the rocks, then shuffled home in the rain, totally redlight defeated.
Since Monday was a literal wash, I was determined to get my monger on on Tuesday. After my oldest conc (and 2nd best bj) sped over for a quick mouthful I made my way Pongward and was met with a horde of middle-aged white couples blocking the pavement, lingering round the food, and making a general nuisance of themselves. I got to King’s 1 five minutes after opening and the front third of seats were already taken. I swung round to the back, high fiving half a dozen girls along the way. Offy charged over like a buffalo in a porcelain doll shop. I always appreciate her company. She’s easy to make laugh, and she regards me with the kind of tactile affection that a teenage girl might show for a cat. I bought her a tequila and we chatted while half a dozen girls scrutinized every move.
Then I made the mistake of ordering a b ruskie from a new barmaid. She had no clue what it was and asked me to write it down. Then she trotted confidently off to the bar, and I knew then that things were already going sideways. I chased after her in time to be handed a bill for 340 baht. A BR is 220 baht. As soon as the bar staff saw me, they knew a signal got crossed somewhere. They tried to explain it to the newbie, who then went and came back with a new bill of 680. Then a barman, an old waitress, and a cashier all went over to the drink orders gal to tell her “b ruskie.” Then they all took turns telling me the new girls is crazy. I patted her on the shoulder and said not to worry, but I couldn’t help wondering what kind of shit show it’dve been if I was a tourist. Stories go around about travelers getting ripped off. 99 times out of the last hundred where my bill was wrong in Thailand, it was because of a mistake—not thievery.
I wandered out to the terrace and sparked up a DE Acid Blondie. A dude approached and asked where he could get one. I told him to go to Session in Silom Complex in the morning. He said “someone mentioned I could get one in a place called Foodland.” I didn’t realize he was up for any old shitty cigar. So I gave him directions. He walked past 10 minutes later with something resembling a stogie and gave a salute. Then I pushed on to new2. If gogo bodies were cars, that joint would be a Porche showroom. Goddam there’s a ton of fuckable gals in there. Don’t get it twisted. There are also a lot of chunksters. But the ratio of hot to not favors the monger in a big way.
In Virgin I was accosted by Yok while a dozen other girls looked on. They’re like cats watching a human hand catnip to just one of their cohorts. It’s a mixture of envy, curiosity and bewilderment. They’re all collectively thinking “How do I get that nip?” To make matters worse I flitted to Foodland and bought six bags of candies and placed it before the stage for girls to snack on over the next few hours. It makes newbies ask, “How do I get my hooks in that guy?” It makes the ones who shrugged me off gnash their teeth with regret.
I popped outside for a SoCo and mini-Cuban. Gogo girls from other bars passed by with their barfines and discreetly wai’d, hoping their customer didn’t see. I didn’t even recognize the ladies. A Virgin girl who snubbed me a month ago and realized her mistake hovered nearby, trying to figure out how to walk back her previous bad attitude and get in with Seven. She had a look of confusion like a monkey trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube. My plan is to make her suffer till she attempts to sloppily throw herself at me like a drowning victim toward a piece of floating debris.
On Wednesday I ponged again, mainly because I napped from 19.00 to 21.30 and knew I wouldn’t fall asleep without a few cocktails to ease my path to slumber. K1 was full and so was its terrace. The whole of Patpong plus the surrounding streets–Silom, Soi 4, Surawong–are lousy with tourists at a time of year that should belong exclusively to expats. It’s infuriating. I claimed one of three remaining seats in New2. Had to push a gogo dancer out of it. The problem I have in New2 at the moment is, all the girls who smile at me are ones I don’t want, and all the girls I smile at give me the cold shoulder. Not that I’d pull the trigger on anyone in there. Not yet, anyway. Step one is to narrow them down to two or three targets and I’m not ready to do that at the mo.
After finding zero open spots in K Corner, I circled back to 1 and lucked into a seat just as a chubby Chinese dude vacated it. With 99% Japanese and Chinese punters in there, the cloud of halitosis is suffocating. The Thaillitosis I can handle. It’s a mixture of krapow and SangSom. But them other Asian countries, I’ve never got used to.
Out on the terrace with a b ruskie and cigar, I watched the flow of tourists slowly ebb. Three 50something blonde clams shot eye daggers at the gogo’s door. I call it the thousand-yard misandry. Every time a fareminist (farang feminist) sees The Pong, an angel gets its g-string. At least once a week, you get a pair of Japoths (Japanese goths) running the Night Market gauntlet. They’re fascinating. They veritably melt in the heat, with their patent leather skirts and Doc Martins. To their credit, they’re never reviled by the sight of the gogo. I think a ladygoth and a gogo dancer are cut from similar cloth.
On Thursday after conc number one arrived and I came, I contemplated my goal to stay out of the redlight most nights in order to scale back my drinking slash mongering, and then promptly put on pants and pranced pongward. As I approached the night market, a young yakuza was using his GPS to find The Pong. I know he was yakuza by the ornate, yakuza style tattoo that went from his neck to his ankles. It looked incongruous protruding from his basketball shorts and UnderArmor t-shirt, but nonetheless. He was Japanese mafia. He seemed stoked to be onPong but clearly didn’t know where to go. The time was 19.45–too early for the gogos….that is, except for k1 which was already hopping. They’re meant to open at 20.00 but I think whenever enough girls are sat around doing nothing the DJ just puts on a song and the party starts.
Offy pounced on me within seconds and we both wrestled with her drink order. It’s always the same order but there’s no way to predict what will arrive. She tells the barmaid, “Tequila and orange juice. And put lots of alcohol in it.” This time it appeared as a full glass of oj and a shot of tequila on the side, and I got charged for 2 drinks. She quickly fixed that but when the cocktail returned to the table there was so much booze in it the hair on my arm stood up. Offy always has me test her drink for potency and the scowl on my face met with her approval. But when she tried it, the drink was too strong even for her, so we took turns at suffering sips of that abomination, after which I stumbled to New2 just as the first rotation took the stage. Lots of new girls made eyes at Seven to no avail. I marveled at all the hotskinnies in there, polished off a vodka soda, and shifted to K Corner where a girl I’d auditioned for my harem last month but didn’t end up signing made sad faces at me till I slipped a hundy in her cleavage. Then I made for the K1 terrace hoping to smoke a stogie but every goddam table was taken up by cunting tourists, so I swung round to Virgin where the barmaid who’s served me a hundred times got my drink order wrong. She walked over with a vodka Redbull and I froze. After a long awkward pause she suddenly realized her error and ran back to the bar to correct it. Is a Virgin’s vodka soda 10 baht more than The King’s? Yes. But it’s almost twice the size, so high fives all around.
Friday should’ve been a trip to Soi Cowboy but I balked when I saw the rain forecast. Instead I Ponged again, slipping into K1 at 20.00 where a crew of 6 Nipons who didn’t look old enough to be in a gogo whooped and hollered like a pack of preteen hyenas. I slid outside for a DE Acid Blondie and noticed a half a butt of a Cohiba in the ashtray. The staff tossed it, and 2 minutes later a dude emerged from the bar and asked where his cigar went. The hostess said she binned it. I reached into my bag and offered him a mini Montecristo as a consolation prize. He shook his head, pulled out 2 new Cohibas and handed me one. I refused, saying it was too expensive and I couldn’t accept. He responded by pulling out another one and insisted I take both. He said, “I’m from Qatar. In my country, these are cheap.” I felt like I’d found a skinny brown Santa Claus and it was Christmas fucking morning. We chatted a bit about the state of the world and then his wife arrived, her hands full of bags from shopping in the Market. He said, “I have to go. I am ATM,” and bade me farewell with a kiss on each cheek. For a split second, I felt like Lawrence of Arabia.
A K1 dancer came to sit with me. I feel awkward around her because a month ago she was pregnant, and by my untrained eye, she wasn’t near full term yet. But now she’s back on the pole. I’m afraid to ask after her baby because I think she might’ve miscarried. So we exchanged small-talk and I pretended not to know she was ever pregnant in the first place.
I was so ripped after smoking the Cohiba that I need 3 beers just to level out. I had one on the terrace, one in New2 and one in K Corner. In the seats behind me in New2 were a couple of blokes who were basically me and my buddy when I first started coming to The Pong. I see them regularly but always as a pair, as if they’re too scared to redlight alone. When I first arrived in TLOS, I fell in with a half Japanese-half Caucasian from New York who was a fashion model in Thailand. He nicknamed me Goose, after the unwanted-by-women character from Top Gun. Every time we walked into a gogo the girls screamed and instantly soiled their knickers while taking no notice of me at all. But this dude refused to barfine or give women money, so in short order I stopped being Goose, because no gogo dancer wants to give away free sex, no matter how hot the guy is, and I quickly became a coveted customer in the minds of the girls. It was then that I realized I’m no cunt’s wingman. I’m fucking Tom Cruise up in this motherfucker. After that, I eschewed all attempts by other expats to make me a secondary character in this Hunter Thompson novel of a life, and for the last 10 years randos have tried in vain to ride my coattails in the redlight. Everyone can fuck off. In this 200-meter stretch of wretched real estate, I’m The Man.
At 22.00 it finally started to rain. I skipped over to Virgin where the girls outnumbered the punters 10 to 1. In the space of about 20 minutes though, the place was turnt. I think I’m using that urban slang term correctly. The girls put on a clinic of pelvic pole perversion that’d make a hooker blush.
On Saturday I should’ve gone to cowboy. My conc was finished by 19.00 and the forecast as no rain. I had no excuse not to go, except that I didn’t fucking feel like it. Instead I took my throne outside k1 yet again, with a stogie in one hand and a b ruskie in the other. The beer garden was rammed with gawking tourists who couldn’t take their eyes off the k1 stage. And I, lord of all I surveyed, watched the unwashed peasants with a mixture of reviling and amusement (revusement for short, copyright BKK7). The white families are the best. Dad tries not to get caught sneaking glances. Mom is infuriated by the sight of tna on display. Daughters stare, feeling the tingle of the universe calling them to one day take up the pole, in more ways than one. The sons experience all of puberty in 20 minutes. Four slavs–3 men and a clam–tried to decide between the gogo and the ping pong show. The dude who was with the girl clearly wanted the latter and tried to get his friends to support the idea. Finally they caught on and did their wingman duty by outvoting the chick and off to the ping pong they went. I love to watch the before/after of a ping pong customer. They emerge from the venue forever changed. After the BR, I had two Leos and just lounged for an hour, watching the freak show meander past. In 30 minutes I saw six barfines, plus a previous night’s longtime couple coming back to the scene of the fine. I’ll never understand that flex. Why go back to the gogo with the girl you already got? It’s just a money suck. Unless you’re going to try to wrangle a second gurl. But that’s strictly for Pongfessionals. Most tourists are already in over their heads after one liaison.
Earlier in this blog I mentioned a pair of farang who are newly familiar in the Pong, resembling myself back in 2012 when I first started to make Ponging a habit. They tried to enter K1 whereupon they were accosted by the staff with the previous night’s bill, which they had neglected to pay. After a short, tense exchange, they left, ostensibly to visit an ATM. Two Nipons asked the doorman, “We can touch?” Making the international sign of squeezing tits with both hands. “Yes!” was his reply. “Really?” Yes! “Can touch?” Yes! “Can touch?” YES! Then they walked on. Tourists are so weird.
Speaking of, a gaggle of American missionary clams came lumbering through the Night Market holding signs with a QR code. If only salvation were that simple. I wanted to ask to scan the code, but yankee twatssionaries notoriously have no interest in saving men. They’re secretly in Thailand to eliminate it as a bastion of patriarchy, and are quite happy to let us all burn in hell.
The redlight is like a box of chocolates. You never know what sweet morsel will pop itself into your mouth. I had this exact experience in Virgin, where a girl I’ve wanted to nail since 2016 suddenly unfroze herself from what was an 8-year cold shoulder and asked to come to my room on Sunday. She calls herself Nico, but that’s not the name I know her by. I’ve followed her pole gripping career from bada Bing to glamour to vi4gin. I briefly lost track of her when she got knocked up during covid, and on her return to the redlight her post-baby body seem3d wrecked beyond repair. But thanks to exercise and good genes, that fuck ride rebounded to nearly as perfect as her probably self. And I was super stoked to add her to my lay list. As this posts on a Sunday. And I’ve yet to bang her, my report on her bedworthiness will have to wait till next week.
That made two weeks in a row of Ponging for this weary wang wielder. Maybe I’ll make it to Cowboy next week.
In other news, here’s how I know I’m out of shape. The other day, I was banging a conc from behind, and I decided to give her ass a smack. The next day, my deltoid was sore. If that ain’t a wakeup call to get back to an exercise routine, I don’t know what is.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is a series of short videos taken in various gogo bars over the past couple of years. It can be found 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 artwork 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: When a gogo dancer asks you for a 2nd drink, don’t say “no” unless you’re sure you have no intention of ever making a go at her. Saying “no” almost always closes that door forever. Saying “Yes” might not get her to come home with you that night, but a reluctant gogo gal is like an iceberg. You might have to chip away at her for awhile before she finally melts. At worst, you lose a couple hundred baht.
