What’s up reader, how was your week? My name’s Seven, this is my blog, and my week was spent in a little neighborhood called Patpong.
On Sunday night, the ganja truck that usually parks across from the entrance to King’s Castle was mysteriously missing. Maybe they arrived after the market stalls were erected and couldn’t get in to park, or maybe they chose a different location. I wouldn’t think that, though, since the Pong is the only redlight with gogos that allow ganja. It’s strictly banned in Cowboy and Nana bars.
On the 6th of February, China finally allowed its citizens to leave the country for holiday trips—but only to 14 countries and yes, Thailand is one of them. They’re easy to spot, since they’re the only ones still wearing masks in the redlight.
At 21.00 I grabbed a vodka soda in Black Pagoda and sat looking out on Soi 2 in the direction of French Kiss. A farang couple came walking up the street, and the chick was actually hot (throwback to last week’s post). She was the first hot femang (female farang) I’ve seen in months.
On Monday, my harem girl stayed till 22.00, so I didn’t bother to leave my apartment.
New food stalls appeared in the Night Market on Tuesday: deep fried cheese on a stick and French fry-coated sausage. At first bite, I actually heard my arteries creak like a rusty hinge. Also new, crispy pork.
I’m surprised how many tourists hit the Market, walking Soi 1 from end to end over and over, never realizing that there’s another whole soi in Patpong. It must be confusing to see just 3 gogo bars and a couple of ping pong shows. They’re probably wondering “Where’s the redlight?’ It’s on the other soi, dumb-dumbs. No wonder King’s Castle and Corner get so many shocked gawkers. They ain’t seen Soi 2.
Both pomegranate vendors were MIA on Tuesday so I had to mix my vodkas with pineapple juice, which coincidentally is the drink that sustained me through a long lonesome winter in Essex back in 2008. And I’ll say this: pineapple juice in Thailand is fucking amazing. It’s not even a little bit tart. Paired with a vanilla cigarillo, it tasted like a cocktail my college roommate invented: Stoli Vanil, oj, and amaretto.
Soi 1 has a new panhandler—what we in Thailand call a begpacker. It’s a tourist who flew to TLOS, stayed too long, lived beyond their means, ran out of money mid-holiday, and must beg for handouts from other tourists to fund his ticket home. I kept an eye on him for 40 minutes, and thankfully, no one even acknowledged him. I’m not saying I don’t have sympathy for people who fall on hard times. I’m saying that can’t do it while vacationing in paradise. No one should come here unless they can afford to also leave.
In Bada Bing a little Indian guy (or maybe Iranian, I’m not good at differentiating people from that part of the globe) donned his best long sleeve black and gold rayon shirt and came to the redlight looking for love. He circled the stage, barely able to contain himself, and after perusing several girls, sticking his nose uncomfortably close to too many asses, he settled on a big booty bimbo in pasties and black lace. He pointed at her furiously like he was choosing a cow at a dairy auction. The mamasan brought her over and I swear he jazzed his jeans before she even sat down.
On Wednesday I left my apartment at half 10, which is the time I’m usually heading home. The alarm goes off at 6 am so a late redlight venture is unwise. But I was pumped up from the harem girl departed minutes before, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep without a couple cocktails. The ganja truck returned after a 3-day absence, much to the joy of both midnight tokers and K Castle staff, as it acts like a magnet for potential customers. In XXX Lounge, a fellow Pongmonger had Beer and Earn down off the stage for drinks. I won’t post his name—I’ll just say it rhymes with a famous Marvel villain. He stopped me for a chat, and both girls looked terrified as we conversed, as if they thought I’d be angry that they were sitting with another dude, as if they don’t do that every night. It’s part of what makes a gogo dancer so enigmatic. And I suppose there are possessive regulars out there who get jealous about the girls they like. But I’m not one of them, and neither was my chum. Besides, I scratched these two off my harem list a long time ago. They’re just bar buddies now.
Speaking of ex-harem girls, twice a week I get a message from a girl I’m trying to ween off my monetary teat. She won’t take no for an answer, and I know it’s because she’s desperate for cash. And I like her, I do. She’s a good person. But I’m tired of banging her, and she’s no good at giving head. Every couple of months I throw her a bone, and it’s never memorable. She’s a metaphorical barnacle on my ballbag.
On Thursday, I was onPong by 17.30 for pizza and happy hour Heinies in Delaney’s (130b). I’m trying to like Heineken because it’s the only readily-available beer in Bangkok that’s not made with GMOs. The sausage-n-spinach pie was a nice fuel-up for the night, and I had a lot on my schedule. First though, I had to park outside K Castle for a vodpom and tourist-watching. A farang dressed like one of the Backstreet Boys circa 1996 thought that speaking to the girls in Thai would impress. “You have black shoes….I ate rice already.” Jesus, douchebag, give it a rest. Finally, a mamasan came over and told him to either buy a drink or shove off. He disappeared inside the bar, and I didn’t see him after that.
In Bada Bing, not a single veteran graced the stage. Only young bloods trying to stake claims. It’s always a kick in the pants to get the choose-you treatment from a girl onstage. For me, it only happens when I’m in Ptown or when a new girl a’Pong doesn’t yet know I’m a mini mafia don in the redlight. Two Latinx chicks sat down, browsed the drink menu, and chose on a couple of ridiculous over-the-top cocktails with umbrellas and fruit sticking out the tops. They sipped languidly while scrutinizing dancers and customers alike. When woke wanks, social justice warriors, or feminists come to the redlight, I usually like to leave them with an eyeful of something they can take back with them and tell as a horror story, like pulling out a girl’s tit or pulling down someone’s daisy dukes. But that’s only something I can get away with with a veteran. If I tried it with a newbie it might scare her to death.
On Friday I was a’Pong by 19.00. ‘Twas quiet on Soi 1 despite a new food vendor—deep-fried everything, including jumbo river prawn, crab, and cheese balls. I skipped all that and instead had krapow gai and paw piet from Derby King delivered to my spot outside K Castle where Ofee had saved me a seat. After dinner and two vodpoms I split to Black Pagoda for their 95b happy hour. One of the old-timers informed me that it would be her birthday at midnight, and that she’d be turning 30. I first met her in Electric Blue 11 years ago. Back then I propositioned her, and she told me she didn’t go home with customers. But I kept asking, and after four years, she finally capitulated, on the condition that I don’t tell anyone, lest word get back to her tomboy. She’s been a regular harem girl ever since.
For the last month, bar owners have pondered what the foot traffic would look like, once China lifted its lockdown. And as stated earlier, that happened at the start of February. And yet, there wasn’t a tsunami of sino’s. Not at first, anyway. That changed on Friday, when—in the Pong at least—the Chinese were in the hizzouse. Damn, those Mandastards (Mandarin bastards) were everywhere, but especially in the two King’s bars Goddam, they took up every seat. Speaking of, K Castle had a topless show at half 9. It was so packed, about a dozen dudes had to stand around the stage. I couldn’t even get in the door so I popped into Radio City where the girls were…how to put it lightly…rough. Which is surprising considering the hotness of the chickies in their sister bar, Bada Bing. After a few minutes, a collection of comely courtesans appeared from upstairs in their street clothes and bailed with customers. ‘Twas then that I realized a gaggle of gorgeous gals had been barfined, hence the dearth of desirable dames. I polished off a couple vodkas and went home.
Following what is now the nightly routine, I was back onPong for dinner at 19.00 on Saturday knowing my harem girl would interrupt by redlight rampage at 21.30. The plan was to Pong until then, then nail her to the headboard, then flit over to NanaP for a looksee. But at 18.30 my BFF who works in Twister messaged to say she was home with a cold, so I decided fuck it, I’m not going to Nana.
There was yet another new food stall on Saturday—a roti station. I had a quick gai medmamuang and moo det diow in Derby King, then popped over to K Castle for a pina-vanilla (the working name of the vanilla cigarillo and pineapple-n-vodka combo) before swinging through Black Pagoda and XXX Lounge, at which point my harem girl messaged to say she was inbound. I arrived home just in time for her, nearly too drunk to fuck. Luckily, this girl takes care of the first 10 minutes herself. All I have to do is lay there for some introlatio (intro fellatio). Then, she basically uses my carcass as a sex toy. When she tuckers out, it’s my turn to rev the engine like an old gas-powered lawnmower. After a few false starts, I finally get going, sputter for a bit, then run out of gas. And she only has herself to blame, for showing up so late, though in truth it’s not her fault. She works 6 days a week at a goldsmith’s and doesn’t clock out till 9. And so this early punter has another #thailandproblem, namely a drunken bedroom session once or twice a week.
Once the girl bailed, I got back out t’Pong and straight to Pink Panther. My galpal Beem sat with me per usual. She has the distinction of being the tiniest gogo dancer in Bangkok. She’s in her late 20s but at a glance could pass for a middle school student. Except for the tattoos. They’re a giveaway.
Both King’s were too crowded to sit down, so I Bing’d, and then hit Radio City. Pickings in there were slim again. I’ve not yet figured out if it’s a matter of early barfining or what. I know hotties work there because I see them on the regular. Maybe this joint just has a high turnover of shorttime girls.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Check back next Sunday for another summary of red-light events. In the meantime, you can read more about Bangkok life on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
If you’re in a generous mood, you can donate anytime at https://www.buymeacoffee.com/bangkok7
Follow me on Twitter @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, and until next time, keep your balls 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 a punter, monger, regular, expat, or sex tourist in Bangkok right now, it’s likely you will encounter a few femang (female farang) feminazi social justice warriors in the redlight. They go there to view your misogyny in real time. Their hope is to shame you, or at least expunge their Orwellian two minutes of hate at you. Do not be deterred. They will never succeed at importing their woke agenda into Thailand. In the redlight, you are the one who belongs. They are the invaders. So don’t allow them to make you feel bad, and if any of them attempt to confront you, tell them to get fucked.
