What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession.
As August winds down, and we locals look forward to a couple precious months of less-crowded tourist traffic, I look at the unwashed mobs in the redlight and can’t help but wonder, Where did my low season go? Well, at long last, it seems to’ve started as of last week. There’s finally been a small diminishment of cunting tourists in the gogos, if not yet in the vanilla areas. Tourism in the Pong has effectively undergone a state of reverse cuntmosis (cunt osmosis), where the numbers of punters has fallen as the hordes of soi meanderers grew. So we’ve entered a kind of quasi-low season.
I’ve said many times that I think it’s a pendulum swing caused by three years of scamdemic travel bans, and folks are still emerging from their basements to take triumphant holidays and get busy livin’. But for fuck’s sake, can’t a monger get a break? Bring on the bird flu, I say. I mean, Bill Gates funded a project to create a human-transmissible version over 15 years ago. Fucking drop that lab sample already.
In the meantime, I’m trying to live my best life. Retirement is a bitch. I’m awake all night and I sleep all day like a goddam bar girl. It’s hard to establish a schedule when you have no responsibilities. I tried and failed again to cut back on my redlighting. Here’s how it shook out…
On Monday I made it over to Soi Cowboy because the forecast said no rain till 22.00, so I thought I could skate over before it started. But of course, halfway there on a motorbike, what Forrest Gump would call big ole fat rain began pelting me on the top of the head. The driver sped like a bat out of hell and dropped me off just as the sky split open. I swung into Stumble Inn for their fish and chips special: 330b for the meal and a pint of Chang. I asked the barmaid for the wifi password, which she seemed to think was worth the price of a drink. 180b for a Red Bull. I give a big thumbs down to the concept of buying your waitress a ladydrink. She brought it over and stood next to me while I ate. If I wasn’t famished I would’ve paid and bailed just to get away from that uncomfortable situation.
I hurried to polish off the fish, and when I put the money in the bin she had the gall to ask for a tequila shot. I said no. She asked where I was going. I told her the Dollhouse. She said “bai duai.” Now why in the everloving fuck would I bring a 30something waitress with me to a gogo bar? Fucking hell, do I look that hard-up for clunge? I’ve a harem of 8s and 9s. I feel like I’m at least 20 years away from taking barmaid 6s out of the pub.
On the Dollhouse terrace I ordered a double Hennessey (“Cognac not happy hour” said the bartender) and lit up the Cohiba that was a gift from a random Patponger (throwback to last week’s post). Then a beer magically appeared at my table. At the same time, I got a Line message from DH boss Dennis, who hadn’t arrived yet. It was a screen shot of me sitting on the terrace. The message said, “I got you.” Goddam, that’s what I call gogo TLC. Hitting me with a free drink while he’s in transit.
Two portly Aussies sat smoking a joint, surrounded by six dancers. I could see their brains stacking memories like poker chips to be wagered later against the vacays of their buddies back in Perth.
Then the rain stopped, and Cowboy filled up in a flash flood of farang and Sino-Nipons.
After getting a proper buzz from the stogie I stepped into DH to have a look at the stage. They’ve got a contingent of very shapely ladies in there who clearly put in time at the gym in their off hours. After that I had one in Rainbow, mainly to seek out old galpals from Patpong. There was only one open seat and it didn’t provide a good view of the stage, so I quietly sipped my SML and got lost in my own thoughts. Then two exStrip girls came over to chat, and opened a video call with a 3rd lass who was at home. We had a catch-up, and then I went to the terrace to people-watch. I noticed that Venus was shut with a for-lease sign out front. It warmed my heart to see them closed down, since it was their own stupid business practices that caused them to fail, namely overcharging for beers and half a dozen employees accosting each customer for ladydrinks. My hope is for every gogo that jacks up their prices and harasses punters to go broke. That’d be a teachable moment.
It started to rain again, so I quickly paid my bin and motaxi’d t’Pong and K1, which was going off despite it being a Monday. On Cowboy, I witnessed a lot of farang couples braving the gogos. It was the same in Patpong. It must be a kind of irresistible torture for both. The man is compelled by his gonads to flutter like a moth toward the redlight. At the same time, he must know it will earn him a halflife of hell from his mrs. And the mrs is mentally flogged by the scene while simultaneously fulfilling a deep desire to know what power her feminine wiles could wield, were she younger and thinner. The whole affair is beautiful and ghastly all at once.
I glanced up at the stage and spotted Noey, a girl I hadn’t seen since she pledged to come to my room. That was 3 weeks ago. I counted ten 10s among K1’s two Monday rotations, a ratio that puts every Cowboy and Nana bar to shame.
When a gang of fat Nipons jumped onstage, I paid my bin and stepped outside. The rain had put enough of a damper on the Night Market that tourist traffic had ground to a halt. I sucked down a draft beer and watched the rain come down in sheets. When it abated just enough, I hopped a mo’taxi home.
On Tuesday night I had a thing happen for the first time. I was on the couch, rewatching Season 1 of Rick and Morty, and dozed off. I woke up at 20.30 and thought well, I could just move to the bed and get in a long restful night’s sleep. So I climbed in, turned out the light, and proceeded to stare at the ceiling for an hour. At 21.30 I gave up, took a shower, got dressed, and walked t’Pong.
K1 was only half full, shockingly, and was the first indication of a slide toward low season numbers. Offy was either MIA or sat with a customer so I was unmolested for the length of a vodka soda. I exited as around eight tourists simultaneously took photos of the stage from the beer garden while the staff tried to block them. It made me wonder as I often have how many thousands of tourists’ Patpong photos I’m in. I actually saw myself in one rando’s YouTube video once.
In New2, a galpal who hadn’t worked in a couple weeks returned. I had a lip-reading conversation with her while she danced. Bai nai ma? I mouthed. She shrugged. I held up two finders. Song atit you mai tam ngan. She nodded. Girls to her right and left tried to suss out whether I was talking at them. Nearby punters watched us with keen interest. Some dudes take a closer look at girls who’re already in talks with other punters. I think it gives them an ego boost to take a girl away from someone. I did it a lot when I lived in Phuket, but then that’s a more hostile redlight environment. You have to be ruthless in Phuket. Here, it’s different. I’m not tempted to chase girls who’re already claimed. Eg there’s a really smoking hot dancer in K Corner who flirts with me all the time, but a monger acquaintance once expressed an interest in her, so I don’t engage. He might never pull the trigger, but that doesn’t matter. There are so many fuckable fish in this habitat that there’s no reason to make a run at some other dude’s lust interest. Maybe if I wasn’t wrung-out like a wet rag six nights a week by my harem, I’d be less accommodating. But right now, it’d be more trouble than it’s worth. Oh, how the years have softened me.
I easily found a seat in K Corner—more proof of a slight low season slowdown. The aforementioned girl wasn’t there but I said hello to several galpals while nursing a cocktail. Somehow I’d hit all 3 king’s in under an hour. I decided to circle back and have a wee Leo outside K1 just to slow down and take in the scene. Three gross farang chicks sat in the beer garden staring at the gogo stage with a mixture of horror and disappointment on their faces. I know I bring it up in every post, but nothing gives me more joy than watching white chicks come to the realization that the patriarchy is alive and thriving. Western skanks think they have the entire male race by the balls, and for them, Thailand is a wakeup call. In the US, fat ugly clams can bully beta cucks all day long. In Thailand, they’re worth precisely nothing. I love to see it. Speaking of Western clam, faithful readers might remember an earlier blog when I mentioned my last farang girlfriend–the one who essentially drove me from the United States–recently tried to, in her words, rekindle our friendship via Facebook message. Quick update: I’ve stopped replying to her. I know you probably don’t care, but it’s a big step forward for me to not care about keeping in touch with or meeting the desires of someone who at one time had me wrapped around her finger. She–like so many of my past white girlfriends–was a master manipulator and a cold, self-serving narcissist. So I’ve decided not to grant her “rekindle” request.
Contrast that with a Thai concubine. If one of them strays, or breaks contact for a month, or a year, or 3 years, all she has to do is click “send” and we’ll pick up right where we left off. I remember my favorite girl–she was an electric blue dancer–who’d been with me for 9 years, got knocked up by her Thai bf and left the life. She moved with him to Chanthaburi and went silent. Then one day out of the blue she sent a message saying she was on a bus to BKK and could she come round for a shag. Turns out her baby-daddy left her, and her first thought was to jump back in my bed. Goddam, I love Thai women. Since then, she got herself a new bf and dropped off the radar again, but I know it’s only a matter of time before she’s back riding me like a bicycle, at least for a weekend.
Virgin was nearly empty at 22.30. Empty of punters, that is. It was jammed with horny harlots, which meant I got a lot of unwanted attention from random pole kitties. I know they need to get their drink quota, plus cab fare home, but Seven can’t pay for everybody, goddam.
My Wednesday conc showed up an hour and a half late, and so didn’t leave until 22.00. Despite feeling exhausted, I knew if I went to bed I’d just stare at the ceiling till 4 am, so I Ponged. There were quite a few new faces in K1, and again it wasn’t hard to find a seat, as the tourist tide has finally started to ebb. Offy attacked. I bought her a drink. She ordered a tequila and OJ but the drink that arrived was green. The barmaid said they were out of orange, so they mixed it with guava juice. it tasted like ass. The Thai word for guava is “farang,” which can cause some confusion in the gogo. Offy kept saying, “Farang Mai aroi.” I kept pointing at myself and replying “Farang aroi.” It took her a minute to figure out I was referring to the flavor of my wang. Then she laughed and laughed. 20 minutes later I was in a half-full New2. A gang of Nipons were over in the VIP area with their shirts off. I know that for the average person, a Bangkok redlight district is like something out of a movie. The uninitiated tend to act up. I think the last time I had that kind of reaction was around 2014. Those of us who live here and redlight on the reg are a rare breed when compared to the rest of the world. We’re grizzled. We’re seasoned. We’re clunge-weary. But I wouldn’t choose any other life. Some men were born for whoring. Most are not.
Speaking of not, a fat solo American in a bowling shirt with pineapples on it came in, eyes bugging. He got a beer and then walked in circles around the stage stopping here and there to scrutinize the naughty bits of various girls and making everyone feel generally uncomfortable. A mamasan asked if he wanted to invite a girl down to sit with him. He said, “If I do that, I have to buy her a drink, right?” The mamasan nodded. He shook his head and carried on leering at the dancers. I guess in the post #metoo era, just leering is an indulgence. And for all I know, Gen Z dudes don’t even know how babies are made. They’re getting their dicks cut off and calling themselves ladies, for fuck’s sake. And I’m not disparaging the trans community. Thailand is the original trans community. I’m criticizing dumb fucks who don’t know how sex works. They fly 8,000 miles for the privilege of being peeping toms.
In the New2 toilet, three dancers accosted me while I stood at the urinal. I haven’t had stage fright since my early 20s but it was my first post-copulation whizz after my earlier concubine, so it took awhile to hit full stream. Meanwhile, a girl rubbed her tits against my shoulder while the other two carefully watched the piss leave my wang.
In Virgin, Yok sat for a bit while girls who’d snubbed my advances looked on with envy. I slid outside for a SoCo and mini Montecristo, then floated back to the K1 terrace for a b ruskie and Acid Blondie. By then it was after midnight so the Night Market began to come down. Post 00.00 The Kings become a setting where frantic Nipons fervently try to barfine what girls are left. It’s a strange scene. A Japunter came outside and showed around a photo of a dancer on his phone, but she’d already been shorttimed, so the staff told him to try again tomorrow.
On Thursday I was on the couch at around sundown and suddenly realized there was no food in the house. So I walked down to G’s for a keto plate of sausage and sauerkraut, and Guido appeared at my table with a glass of Weihenstephaner Kristall Weizenbock, so…so much for a no-carb meal. Then I Ponged, stopping first for a b ruskie and mini Cuban outside K1, then on to New2. In both places, customer numbers were down—more proof that high season is finally over. It only took till late August. In New2, an American chatted up one of the mamasans. It’s the 3rd time this week he’s been in the Pong, which is the right way for a sex tourist to do Bangkok. Pick a redlight and stick with it. Get the locals to feel familiar with you so they’re acclimated to your presence. And you can see the rotations over several visits, then make a more informed choice of who to barfine. This guy finally pulled the trigger on a 6. But to each his own.
Speaking of, an Indian dude walked in, didn’t buy a drink, and walked a lap whilst grabbing the tits, ass, and cooter of every girl in molesting distance. Then he walked out. That’s a slice of humanity a Yank like me wouldn’t see unless he came to TLOS. It doesn’t happen anywhere else, as far as I know. Then I paid my bin and shifted to K Corner where I spotted an old, old concubine who was a spectacular fuck specimen from 2013 to 2016 when I had her, but has since let herself go. She’s a chunky little monkey now. I grabbed her by the fat rolls and shouted, “What happened?” She said, “Too much ice cream.” I’d bet money it was more than just that.
The Corner was less than half full. T’was the same in Virgin, where the low season chain reaction had already started. When the customer traffic slows, the girls panic and start moving bars. Virgin’s stage was sparsely populated, indicating several dancers were running the circuit, scrambling around to other bars and redlights, hoping to find the place with the most punters. Once they’ve made the rounds and realized it’s the same everywhere, they’ll come back.
And so it’s official. Low season in the Bangkok redlight is now late August to November–barely 3 months’ time. That’s a small window of relief for us locals, who thrive when cunt tourists aren’t around to rain on our parade. But whatever. Two months and two weeks is better than nothing.
Here’s one way to know you have VIP status in a gogo. Right before I walked into Virgin I let out a wretched fart. At first, I tried to walk it off so as to not crop dust everyone near the door, but the girls saw me and beckoned me over. I must’ve trailed that olfactory demon spawn right past them, but nobody said a word. Goddam, that’s clout.
After hanging with Yok for a spell I grabbed a SoCo and stepped outside to smoke another Cuban. And who should walk by but Shitbag Bob—the walking mound of vaginal discharge whom I smacked in Nana Plaza two months prior. I knew it must be payday for the two bars he works for in Patpong. Not coincidentally I noticed he posted half a dozen photos on Facebook for those bars, as per his M.O. He convinces bar owners he has online reach (he doesn’t) and promises to bombard the internet with posts on their behalf. Then he sticks his thumb up his ass for the first three weeks of the month until it comes time to collect his silver. Then he does the bare minimum of pretend work and heads to the bar with his hand out. On a side note, he went on his sad, tiny Twitter to claim himself as the official Nana Plaza photographer. This is a load of horse shit. Of the 30-odd bars in Nana Plaza, he works for seven of them. So to be accurate, he’s the official photographer for 25% of the Plaza. But he can’t keep from lying to falsely pump himself up, because if he doesn’t, no one will. The people who work with him hate him, and he’s generally detested by everyone else in Bangkok. So he partners with Dave the Rave and writes glowing reviews of his own work while pretending to be Dave. Truly pathetic. But look, that’s what you have to do when you’re universally hated in the redlight. I’d feel bad for him if he wasn’t also a total asshole. You can sympathize with a mentally retarded loser if he’s a nice guy. Shitbag Bob deserves no sympathy.
I paid my bin and attempted to follow him, hoping to give him another smack, but he must’ve spotted me despite his blindness because he hauled ass out of the redlight. I walked around for about 10 minutes but couldn’t find him, so I gave up and went to Groovin’ High for some live jazz and a glass of Bordeaux. But then an asshole farang next to me started singing along to “What a Difference a Day Makes” and since I didn’t get the chance to break Bob’s jaw, and was still riled up, I had to fucking leave so I wouldn’t make a scene.
My Friday began with a #Thailandproblem. That’s a problem that can only happen in TLOS where real problems don’t exist. My best bj conc messaged around 15.00 to say she’d be by at 18.00, which meant I’d be finished-off by 18.30. She fucked up the first time she tried to give me her bank info and has been too embarrassed to try again, so I had to give her cash, which meant I had to go with her to the ATM. Then I had to choose whether or not to return to my apartment for an hour or just head Pongward. I had plans to meet up with Jack Nites at 20.00 for a round of photos shoots in the kings, and i knew if i went home I’d probably doze off until 3 am, so t’Pong I wandered with time to kill before the gogos opened. The Night Market was already lousy with plebes. In fact, 5 tables on the K1 terrace were already occupied when I rocked up. They stared as three pole kitties joined me and we started jabbering at each other in Thai. The inside bar wasn’t open but a staff member brought me a vodka anyway. The sashimi I had for lunch didn’t tide me over, so as my blood sugar dipped, I sent a dancer to Foodland for a Snickers and an M-150.
When Jack arrived, we skipped from K1 to New2 to Virgin, all while he filled me in on the latest redlight “scene” gossip. The “scene” consists of Bangkok redlight personalities, movers, shakers, and morons whose day-to-day monopolizes the nightlife blogosphere. Jack is quick to point out that I’m not one of that ilk. He says, “How do I put this? I’m not talking shit….you’re….just you.” What I think he’s trying to say is, I don’t report “news.” If you want to learn the latest change of bar owners or scuttlebutt about Hillary3, you don’t read Seven’s blog. You read one of the other Bangkok nightlife rags. They’re dull as a doorknob, poorly-written, and devoid of entertainment, but they contain “news.” As if anyone gives a fuck who bought which 2nd floor Nana shit hole. I’m whatever the opposite of that is.
As Jack tells me about this or that twat, I try to feign interest whilst making coy eye contact with my next conc target. Then he gets a text from someone else in the Pong and is gone, and I’m left to contemplate my own private mongosphere, as God intended. I slip outside for yet another Soco and mini Montecristo. Another local passes by, and stops to chat. He says his friend is in town from Philly. The dude reads my blog and wants to buy me a drink. I tell him I’m always in Patpong so he knows where to find me. He asks for my number. I tell him I’m in this exact chair at this exact time every night, so just come find me. It’s a lie, but it works, and he walks on. I will be sure to avoid this spot for at least the next month.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate all 10 of my readers. But I’m socially retarded. I can’t meet new people, and I’m not interested in hearing anyone talk. I know that’s not what people in proper society think. You’re supposed to take an interest in folks and engage in conversations with them. It’s part of the social order. I hate that shit. The best thing about living in Thailand and maintaining a harem of low-fluency gogo dancers is, they talk about food and weather, and that’s all.
In other news, most dudes who read my blog are likely familiar with Stickman. For many years in the 2000s and 2010s, he was the sole BKK nightlife blogger. Because of that, he garnered a huge following of faithful readers who still peruse his weekly posts, even though he moved out of Thailand several years ago, and relies mostly on the hearsay of cohorts for Bangkok “news.” But every once in a while, he visits, poking his nose into Nana/Cowboy/Patpong for about an hour, and then blogs about it.
Personally, I’ve never had a bad thing to say about Stickman, because my friends who know him say he’s a really nice guy. And I’ve never publicly ragged on his blog, because even though I find it insufferable, I know many people who enjoy it. It’s a matter of taste. And when he hurried through Patpong last week and then shat all over it in his post on Sunday, I couldn’t be bothered to read it. But I did read the response by Pink Panther’s social media guy, which I found to be cogent, succinct, and accurate, because it’s similar to things I’ve said about Stick’s Patpong reviews in the past. In short, he doesn’t like The Pong. And that’s his prerogative.
And from his perspective, he’s right. Anyone who mongered onPong as recently as five years ago can tell you, it ain’t as good now. And if you were around in the 2000s and 2010s, the current state of the Pong can’t hold a candle to those days of yore. And if you were lucky enough to’ve seen it in the 70s, 80s, and 90s, well…today’s Pong would be totally unrecognizable. So for someone comparing eras (comparas for short, copyright BKK7), the Patpong of 2024 is a pile of dog shit.
But that doesn’t mean it’s not awesome. It sucks when juxtaposed with its former awesomeness. And so, it boils down to one’s point of view. Speaking as a relative newcomer t’Pong (I started visiting regularly in 2012), I can say the redlight is a shabby shadow of its decade-ago glory. Most of the best joints from my era are no more. Safari is gone. So are Thigh Bar, Madrid, Mizu’s, Goldfinger, Black Pagoda, Electric Blue/XXX Lounge, Supergirls, Superstar, Kiss Bar, Le Bouchon, De Talk, The Den, The Paddy Field, and Topless Bar. True veterans have lost Grand Prix, The Mississippi Queen, Kangaroo Club, and Lucifer. Patpong has been through the ringer in the last half-century, and 90% of its brightness has dimmed. But even in this new, dilapidated state, I prefer it to the shopping-mall aesthetic of Nana and the overpriced tourist traps on Cowboy (Dollhouse not being one of them). I’m a gogo rat with a heart of darkness, and am better-suited for the sinister corners of the Pong than the sterile, bland experience offered by the other BK redlights. I’m drawn to its ominous history and to those who’re seduced by its siren song. It’s not for pussies, normies, milquetoasts, or weaklings.
For the record, if you’re a Stickman reader, and you genuinely like his content, then you should listen to him when he slags off Patpong. It is not a commercial nightlife zone. It’s not a place for the fragile inclinations of sex tourists or flagging constitutions of aging expats in current year. The Night Market is for vanilla lookieloos, but the gogos are for mongers with more backbone than a typical tourist. It’s the difference between Charles Bukowski and Henry Miller fans versus Tom Clancy fans. And I’m not saying Clancy’s bad, or that one type of reader is better than another—they’re just different. Nana and Cowboy are fitting for the average punter. The characters from The Hangover would be suited for those two redlights. Patpong is for Blade Runners and Replicants. Or for a more updated analogy, Nana is for the cast of the Barbie movie while Patpong is for the John Wickish of the world.
And so, although I don’t know what exactly was said in his blog—because there are only so many minutes left in my life and I don’t have time to piss away—I’m just going to agree. If he says Patpong is shit, take his word for it. Go to Nana instead. That way, I won’t have to fight you for a seat or watch you behave inappropriately and get a beatdown from a couple of bouncers, or witness you crash and burn trying to impress a jaded gogo dancer. Stay in your lane.
In Pong-related news, last week I noticed Dok Bar—the disco-slash-live music bar on Soi 2—had closed. I asked the security guard what was up and he said there was a problem with the plumbing in the toilets. But when nothing changed in more than a week, I asked about it in Virgin, because the same buy owns both venues. The girls said it will get a makeover and reopen as a gogo bar. Which was music to this monger’s old ears.
Here’s another anecdote: I hit Patpong five of seven nights last week, and one of those nights ended with a plate of tacos in Sunrise at 1 am. But I have no recollection of being there or eating them. The only reason I know about it is, while scrolling through my phone, I found photos of those tacos.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is Part 3 of The Strip’s Final Year. It can be found here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-the-strips-final-year-part-3/
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: I can’t remember if I mentioned this one before or not, but when you redlight, you should keep different denominations of bills in their own exclusive pockets. That way when you see a homeless mom begging for money on Silom Road, you can reach into a pocket knowing there are only 20s in it. And when you go to bra-tip a dancer onstage, you know you’re pulling from a stack of only hundreds. In many gogos, where magenta and pink lights abound, after a few cocktails the 500s and 1,000s look just like hundies, so you gotta be careful. Stash them in different locations on your person so you don’t accidentally tip a thousand when you meant 100.
