What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. On Monday, The Pope died. Every time a Pope dies, I tense up. Having been raised Baptist, with an exhaustive Biblical education, I know that the Scriptures assert that the Anti-Christ—the harbinger of the end of the world—will be a Pope. More specifically, the last Pope. So every time one of these fuckers dies, I wonder if his successor will be the one who ushers in the Apocalypse. And given how far down the toilet the planet is at the moment, it’s not far-fetched to think the new guy is a harbinger of The End.
As if on cue, the UK govt has given itself permission to use geoengineering to dim the sun—something that Western govts have been doing since the 1990s—so we can look forward to the disastrous effects of more heavy metals in our air going forward. Ukraine and Russia can’t meet halfway on a cease-fire agreement, so that war seems permanent, and China is poised to invade Taiwan in order to seize control of their microchip production. Pakistan and India are once again toying with nuclear war. All that is to say, a monger better get busy livin’ ‘cause there might not be much livin’ left. Personally, I’m doing the opposite.
Between 2010 and 2024, this pudgy punter hit the redlight six to seven nights per week. I don’t have proof, but I’d wager that’s the longest mongering streak of any Bangkok punter ever. In that same time, I kept a harem of between six and ten concubines, which meant nailing someone about every other day. In short, it was a busy, crazy, physically and financially depleting decade. In the last year, though, I’ve made great strides toward curbing those vices. I’ve pared my harem down to four and see each one just twice a month, and for the past couple of months reduced my redlighting to two nights per week. This is partially due to age, but also because retirement has me on a budget now, and to be frank, I’m bored as hell with the redlight. Still, I managed to drag my fat ass off the couch for some blog fodder, and here it is…
Last Sunday, I got a wild butthair and scampered over to soi Cowboy, stopping first at Dough Bros, the newish sourdough pizza joint next to the MRT exit. I got a slice of pepperoni and a slice of BBQ chicken. There was a twinge of guilt at missing Capone’s, but as they say, variety is the spice of life. The ride over was easy as the roads were more or less deserted, at least compared to typical rush hour traffic. My Bolt driver was slightly suicidal but that’s to be expected. I’ll say this for Dough Bros, they weren’t quick. But when my slices appeared, they were gigantic. The pepperoni had crispy pepperoni bits in addition to the regular, plus honey-chili oil and basil on top. The chicken had onions, cilantro, and BBQ sauce. Both came with a side of ranch. Not bad for 150b each. They even had a bottle of Frank’s Hot Sauce on the table. The crispy pepperoni bits were a tad much for my liking, but the BBQ chick tasted exactly like the one from California Pizza Kitchen back home. I have to say, I found the pizza to be a bit over the top. There was too much going on. When I have a pie, I want it to be simple and straightforward. “Too much of a good thing” is a real thing.
I stepped out of Dough Bros into a stiff breeze. ‘Twas one of those “it’s about to piss down” gusts so I made haste to a practically-deserted Soi Cowboy. I made my way to Dollhouse for a happy hour draft. Five chunksters leaned and bounced onstage. A goofy, Arizona-looking farang and his husky high school softball team wife watched the stage intently. Neither seemed impressed, and nor should they have. They bailed after a couple of minutes. I stayed for the rotation. ‘Twas worth the wait for just one lass. She was, in a word, statuesque. Tall, with broad shoulders that looked deceptively ladyboyish, but then she had a big, child-bearing pelvis that can’t be surgically replicated, or not yet as far as I know. Beautiful back tattoo. She wasn’t my type–too bulky. But it was a pleasure to watch her prance around the stage like a giraffe. She had a slimmer friend who was more my speed, except sans sixpack, which is a dealbreaker for this picky pimpdaddy. The hottest gal onstage sported a short haircut and red lingerie. But one boob was clearly bigger than the other. For Seven, a girl can have no tits, small tits, or big tits. Just not mix-and-match tits.
Then I swung into Baccara for a 190b SML and a crew of clunge all pushing 30 years of age. The downstairs had two rotations of six. Per usual, 90% of the clientele were sino-nipon but a few conspicuous farang dirtbags hung around looking too self-aware and simultaneously pompous and insecure. In the whole of Cowboy2 there was one fit girl. I got the impression she knew it, too. She kept leaving the stage during her rotation as though she was too good to dance for us swarthy beer swillers. It’s the catch-22 of mongering on the last day of an extended Songkran week. Yes, pickings are sparse, but that makes reeling in a fish easier. However, there are fewer desirables to reel in. It’s yet another thorn in the punter’s side.
I was the only customer in Rainbow. Onstage were a crew of seven 6s. Rota two was more dire. Four droopy damsels dipped and shuffled like sad canines in a dog circus. Long Gun had zero attractive girls. I’d never seen such a sorry assemblage of sad sacks on Soi Cowboy. Every time I’m here, I can’t help but recall the Cowboy of 2010, when you couldn’t swing a dead cat anywhere on the soi without hitting a perfect 10. That caliber of clam (clamiber for short) seems long gone and never to return. In spite of the dearth of desirables, Cowboy—and Long Gun in particular—was rammed with tourists. I guess if you don’t know to compare things to 15 years ago, you don’t realize how bad it is. Tilac was packed, and every chick onstage was fat. There were a few hotskinnies scattered about…they just weren’t dancing. After that, I called it a night.
Then I hunkered down for a few days, perusing Pattaya condo rentals in between entertaining concs and trying to stay out of the heat, and didn’t venture out again until Friday. I went for a Pong.
Offy kept me company in K1. She insists on holding my hand and feeding her her ladydrink through a straw. She always orders a tequila and OJ. Kings3 has a hot-season aircon problem. The rest of the year it’s fine, but in these hellish months, they simply fail. It’s true of a lot of places. I tried to have a galpal over for a drink but an Americunt in a Covid mask and a baseball cap ran in and snagged her first. I’m not fussed. He’ll spend 20 minutes trying his weak game before learning the shorttime all-in is 5k. And if he’s cool about dropping that much coin for 5 minutes in heaven then more power to him. To me she’s just a part-time BJ recruit.
Over in a corner, a fat nipon sat snogging a girl half his size. I imagine he’s got either a nasty wife back in Tokyo or a studio apartment crammed with nothing but despair. Either way, he can find temporary respite in this hot gogo. And just as I typed those words into my phone, the mamasan grabbed the remote and cranked up the air. The joint became an ice box in under a minute.
King’s 3 and 2 had a handful of new hotskinnies, proving not every clam in Thailand is overdosing on KFC, thank Buddha. When I went for a piss, Eva–the hottie who denied my harem offer–was sat on the sink. She harassed me the entire time about having too many girls in the redlight and never buying her a drink. I slipped a hundy in her bra and pinched her nipple for good measure before scampering over to K Corner, currently the best gogo in Patpong by leaps and bounds. They had 2 rotations of 25, both rife with newhotskinnies. Every chick in there watches me with a side glance. They’re all waiting to see which filly will get a pink bill stuffed in their undies.
I also popped over to Virgin. Nat and Yok hung out for a bit, and as I watched the stage I realized there were three gals up there whom I’d happily nail that I’ve known for years and never pulled the trigger on. I know I just cut down my harem, but seeing all that newclunge I couldn’t help but feel a primordial urge to plant my flag in all of them. I’m trapped in a never-ending cycle of trying to shrink my harem and yearning to tap new pussy. It’s a vicious cycle.
Everywhere I went, there were hungry looks and proximal preening. Girls seeking ladydrinks. I got the feeling this high season’s had a lot of lookie-loos but not as many barfines or cocktails for the girls. I could be wrong. It’s just the impression I got. Now that high season is over, the stream of unkempt fuckheads in market sois and redlight byways has already begun to wane. Unfortunately, that also means the gogos tend to get light on hot trim. Homer had the Scilla and Charybdis. Thailand has the double-edged sword of low season dips which is, sure there are fewer cunt tourists, but there’s also not as many fannies on gogo stages. It’s the start of that time of year where the girls work multiple venues, changing throughout the week depending on the bars’ busy nights. Fridays and Sundays are quiet in Patpong, and the lineups reflect it. Still, there are reasons to hope. The King’s Group continuous to attract girls who’re built like supermodels.
In other news, my photos continue to get stolen and posted elsewhere on the interweb by cunting thieves. Some piece of shit named Tor Hulbakviken published one of my King’s Castle photos in a Pattaya group. I can’t report it because I’m not in the group, but if I ever have the good fortune of meeting Tor, I’m going to break his eye socket.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is the third in a series of photo albums of Patpong’s hottest dancers between 2010 and 2019. The link is here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-patpongs-hottest-honeys-2010-2019-part-3/
but only if you become a Member. The price 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. 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:
@superhotthais
@BangkokNightli2
If you’re feeling generous, you can leave a tip on any of the above X profiles. All proceeds will go to creating more redlight content.
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: Over in the US, RFK Jr is shining a light on all the horrible shit that’s in our food. As expats in Thailand, we’re a little safer, but the unfortunate facts are: seed oils aren’t food—they’re machine lubricants, food dyes cause cancer, fast food condiments have e-coli, and anything you eat or drink that was stored in plastic is leaching microparticles that get stored in your balls. So if you want to live longer, and if you don’t want piles of plastic in your fucking testicles, avoid that shit as much as possible.
