What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession.
Let me start by saying, I’m not a Republican. I’m an anarchist. I believe govts should not exist. But because I’m not a Kool-Aid drinking Demorat, internet algorithms have pegged me as a Retardlican. And I’m not saying Facebook is trying to sway the US presidential election, but every day last week I had to spend an hour deleting pro Kamalface, anti-Trump, and straight-up communist (no joke) pages from my feed. It’d be less subtle if Zuckerberg just whacked me over the head with a rock. I’m curious whether leftists are being inundated with pro-Trump Maga pages. If so, then FB is just trying to make everyone fight. If not, it’s an Establishment propaganda campaign. But I digress.
This old gogo hound had a mostly-quiet week in the redlight. I held out till Wednesday to Pong in a bid to 1—be less of a drunkard and 2—save cash for upcoming trips. T’was another late start (10 pm), after a session with conc number 1 and watching The Expendables 3. While walking Silom to the Night Market I noted markedly fewer tourists about—a welcome relief for this cynical local (cynicocal for short). One dude emerged from The Ibis just as I passed and made a beeline Pongward. Clearly, he’d chosen his hotel strategically for that particular adult entertainment zone. A wise choice if he’s got the stones for it.
There was no room on the K1 terrace or inside the gogo so I flipped to Virgin. All around soi 2, crowds of Japanese huddled together, getting high. The whole Pong was thick with ganja smoke.
I sat down and ordered a vodka soda. The cocktails in Virgin are huge compared to many gogos, and I can only speak for myself but the staff always pour a ball-tightening portion of booze that makes the hair on my neck stand up. Nat—one of the dancers—reminded me I hadn’t bought any candy for the girls since Saturday. Goddam, back your Pavlovian drool off a monger for a minute. Jeez.
I counted four new faces onstage before retreating to the terrace for a miniCuban. There I observed an ancient ritual: the soi meander of the bargain-hunting sex tourist. Cowboy’s prices made his head spin. Nana mocked his fuckbudget. And so he Ponged, but the gogo was still beyond his wallet’s reach, so he trolled the karaoke’s and Crown Royals hoping to find an affordable lay. But in the end, he didn’t have the courage, and so slowly moseyed towards the upstairs shadow bars on Soi 2 where grit and grunge meet tits and clunge. Where you can get a gram of coke and/or catch the clap from a flapper. It’s the stuff of fever dreams and great pub stories for when you limp back to Sheffield or wherever.
I wound back round to K1 for a terrace beer. A Nipon had a Singha tower and five dancers at a table. They all wai’d-slash-high-fived Seven, and a couple moved over to sit with me while a very drunk Japanese guy carried on a drunk argument with two girls who clearly couldn’t agree on a short-time fee.
For some reason there was a shit ton of Thai dudes in the beer garden. This tends to happen in low season when the tourist tide ebbs. The Thai guys gain a little more courage to sample the redlight. Back during the Covid lockdown, Thai customers kept these gogos afloat, with no small help from expats like me, and once they got a taste of this forbidden fruit, it must’ve been impossible to shake. How many Covid-era Thai dudes are at home right now, grinding their teeth at the gogo heaven they sampled that they now must avert, like a junky from the fix, like a gambler from the game. My heart breaks for them. Covid was cruel in ways Westerners can’t conceive.
A tubby bald solo sex tourist rocked up to K1 in black denim shorts and his favorite short-sleeve button down—black with gold diamonds. A shirt he clearly took pains to pick out in the shop and thought about wearing for the whole flight to BKK. I’m not mocking him. He deserves praise for braving Thailand alone, and following the call of his aching balls to finally ultimately lay hands on a beautiful woman. Bad fashion notwithstanding. A few minutes later, a dad walked up with his son to peek in the door of the gogo. His kid couldn’t have been more than 2 years old. Now that’s what I call starting them mongering young.
The redlight is getting smaller for this weary whoremaster. I’ve been banned from Nana for slapping Shitbag Bob. No big loss there as Nana bores me to tears. And now, my buddy Dennis has left the Dollhouse, which was arguably the only reason to visit the overpriced tourist trap of Soi Cowboy. And so I’m relegated to the only redlight that’s actually any good: Patpong. I’m fortunate to be stuck in the redlight with the hottest dancers in BKK. Speaking of, there are two kinds of gogo bar in TLOS: Thai owned, and farang owned, and the vibe is significantly different. Not coincidentally, the type of dancer that works in these very different environments is also distinct, and the kind of punter they cater to are as polarized as two ends of a magnet. I’m not saying it’s impossible for a dude to enjoy both types of gogo, but there are also punters who are more acclimated for one while going against the grain of the other. Obviously, most farang fit better in a farang owned bar. It’s rare when a Westerner finds a Thai owned establishment more comfortable and comforting than that of a fellow foreigner. I suppose it depends on how long a monger’s been in country and how much he’s allowed himself to embrace “Thainess.” As a foreigner who—over the past 15 years—has preferred the company of Thais over Americans, Aussies, and Europeans, I fall into that tiny demographic of farang who are happier in Thai owned gogos. This is a topic I’ve broached before but I was thinking about it again last week and I feel like it’s worth mentioning again, seeing as how my blog is a redlight blog.
Now, I’m not trying to take a shit on farang who prefer the safe, cushy, vanilla atmosphere of a foreigner-owned establishment. Most dudes on the planet are vanilla. Normies. Regular, run-of-the-milquetoast kinds of dudes. Contrary to the stupid, ridiculous beliefs of all those clams who say they’d rather be stuck in the woods with a bear, 99.9% of men are harmless, bland, and boring. And that’s great. I love those types of guys. They gather at the pub and watch football together. They play rugby on the weekends together. They go golfing with their friends and do chores around the house. For them, nothing’s more “dangerous” than hitting up TLOS once a year or moving here after the divorce and sidling up to the stage of a gogo where the owner looks and acts like one of his golfing buddies. In fact, just doing that takes a kind of courage most men don’t have. If you had the balls to upend yourself, fly halfway around the world, and put down roots in a country where you don’t speak the language, good on you. That might be the limit of your adventurousness, and that’s fucking commendable.
But that’s not me.
My comfort zone is a tad…darker. And it doesn’t mean I can’t float around in that normal environment, as if on a blow-up raft in the shallow end of a pool. I like living room Superbowl parties and seven-layer bean dip the same as everyone else. But I know, and I’ve always known, even before coming here, that while I can blend into that habitat, it’s not my natural one. When I’m in a crowd of other white dudes all talking with California accents—or Leeds or Chelmsford accents, for that matter—I feel like a barracuda in a koi pond. All this is a roundabout way of saying that I’m more at home in a gogo filled with Yakuza and a staff that speaks no English. In fact, too farang-friendly bars make my skin crawl. I’m like a vampire bat in a birdcage when I’m in those places.
For that reason, I’ve consciously and unconsciously put myself in a position to only frequent those gogos that are owned by Thais. It hasn’t all been my doing. It turns out a lot of foreign bosses are stupid cunts, by some strange coincidence. And having said that, I’ve met a lot of farang gogo owners and bosses who’re as cool as fuck. Electric Blue Andy was the first, along with several of his partners. The owners of Shark bar—especially in that brief time when they opened a branch in the Pong. The Bangkok Prince is another. Dollhouse Dennis, and the owner of the now-closed Lighthouse. But times have changed. Some have moved on, and my heart of darkness has grown a shade blacker in the last decade. Soon there might not even be a place for me anymore. Actually, as long as Patpong—the darkest redlight—still survives, I’ll always have a neighborhood to haunt.
Last weekend I was out onPong with Jack Nites once again for a multi-gogo photo shoot. At one point we were standing in the K1 door, talking logistics, and a Muslim woman in a burqa was trying to take a pic of the stage. I was very pleased to block her shot, and so stayed there for several minutes while she vied in vain for a view. A day later I was on an Acid Blondie/b rusky combo on the terrace and watched a farang pass by, stop, turn on his camera, pretend to take a photo of the watch vendor, then meat on a stick before swinging his arm up to get the K1 stage. The bouncer had a bead on him from the first second and stepped up in time to block the shot. I’ll never be as good at frustrating the photogs as the Thai staff are.
The next time you’re in a gogo, try this: when it’s time for the rotation to change, the girls onstage all clap in unison to the beat of the song that’s playing. When they start, you clap too, but on the backbeat. Thai girls can’t carry on clapping the front if someone claps the back. They lose the rhythm immediately.
One evening whilst enjoying a smoke on the K1 terrace, a gogo dancer whom I’m familiar with but had never spoken to came to sit with me. She’s a very unique looking creature. Petite, dark skinned, and sultry with eyes like a cat and a wild array of piercings. She scares off many a tourist with her fierce physiognamy. I never paid attention to her because 1—I assumed she gets scooped up constantly by Sino-Nipon customers and 2—my harem takes up all my free time. But like a cat that balks at being petted while taking offense when she’s ignored, she turned her smoky gaze on me with laser-like focus.
She’s actually the spitting image of the only chick I ever nailed from Crazy House Soi Cowboy, but that was in 2012, so she’d be 30ish by now. This little vixen is 19. We didn’t talk. She just rested one hand on my thigh while smoking a cigarette with the other and looking straight into my soul with those bewitching eyes of hers. Eventually we found an equilibrium, her with a hand near my junk, me sitting motionless as we watched the frenetic foot traffic in the beer garden, in the eye of that storm, unperturbed, in a vortex of stillness yet vibrating with sexual tension. She shifted her hand an inch closer to my wedding tackle. I tried to play it cool. Her pinky finger groped for the edge of my wang. I didn’t flinch. For a moment that felt like a lifetime, the earth stopped spinning and every molecule in my body was on pins and needles. Then she stood up, crushed out her butt, and sauntered into the gogo. I suddenly realized I’d been holding my breath and let out a long sigh as the world came back into focus. Now that, friends and neighbors, is a true cocksmith.
From there I made a surgical strike in Virgin. Yok wasn’t there, and so I was set upon by 5 horny clungemonkeys all vying for a slice of seven’s bank account. Goddam now I know what a crust of bread on a beach full of seagulls feels like. At the same time, a tourist toked on a fat joint and I got hotboxed like a motherfucker. I stumbled out wheezing and bleary-eyed like I had TB.
My current situation in Virgin mirrors my entire life in high school. I’m pursued by girls I’ve no interest in whilst being shunned by the ones I want. It’d be an ego killer if I wasn’t already banging six hot concs Sunday to Saturday. None of my usual friends were there on the night, but a newskinny was lighting the stage on fire. She was visually stunning. Long brown legs, a tiny waist, small natural titties, flat stomach. She didn’t crack a smile, but sometimes the morose ones make the best bedfellows. They work out their anger on your wang.
In other news, I recently read an article that said 20% of people do not have an inner monologue, which means their brain doesn’t talk to them, and they can’t picture things in their mind or hear songs in their head. Twitter is calling these people NPCs. It’s a real revelation for me. All my life, I’ve wondered what’s wrong with certain people. This explains it. I’m the opposite. My inner monologue is constant–even when I’m sleeping. And hearing certain songs veritably transports me through time. The other day I was sitting in K1 and “These Days” by REM came on my headphones. I was instantly portal’d to Washington DC in the summer of 1987. I was visiting my uncle, who worked for the CIA at the time, and his adult children, my cousins, all of whom listened to alternative radio. They turned me on to REM and a band that would shape the next 20 years of my life: Roxy Music. That collection of geniuses showed me that music was more than an art form but also a medium for transcendence, a means of meditation, and a third eye line into the psyche of God. The fact that huge swaths of the population have brains that don’t do this is shocking to me, and at the same time unsurprising. It makes a world that seems backwards and full of morons make more sense.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is a bunch of cosplay photos of current and former pole kitties, plus a handful of gogo dancer selfies that girls sent to me recently. It was a Member request, and so I did my best to comply. The link can be found here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-cosplaycopia/
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: This is for my fellow expat whoremongers in Thailand: I’m not necessarily saying you should do this—it’s just a personal policy of mine.
I never accept freebies from gogo dancers. I understand it can be an ego boost if a gal you just met wants to fuck you for free. Hell, it can be downright validating. But nothing in this life is free. What you gain by not forking out cash you will lose in some other way—usually in the form of freedom and/or peace of mind. In my wild history plowing through clunge in TLOS and subsequent slowing-down, I’ve found that, if you’re not exchanging currency for bedroom Olympics, it means she wants something else. A relationship, or conversation, or emotional connection. Blech, I just threw up in my mouth. In a nutshell, you always pay, one way or another, and straight cash is the least-painful way.
