‘Sup reader, how you livin’? If you’re a Bangkok punter-slash-monger, you already know that the redlights are absolute mayhem at the mo. There are more Chinese/Japanese/Taiwanese/Singaporean tourists than you can shake a stick at (if you happen to be one of those weirdos who shakes sticks at people), not to mention the hordes of horny-yet-inhibited Yanks slaking their unslakable yearning for easy poon. This lazy lothario is already tired of the new routine, which consists of plodding back and forth between Cowboy and Patpong or Nana and Patpong, especially since discovering that 90% of ex-XXX girls have migrated as a group to Whiskey-N-Gogo (WhiskeyGG for short) in NanaP. This has doubled the time I spend in the Plaza, which now must be divided between WGG and Twister, before boomeranging back t’Pong for the remainder of the night. It’s downright exhausting. And urgent last week, thanks to the not-at-all shocking stupid nonsensical booze ban on Saturday. Here’s how it all shook out…
Sundays are always quiet on the Pong. And after a two-hour storm, it was even quieter. I scrapped plans to stay in after my harem girl drank my last two bottles of Asahi and plunged out into the night at half 9. Dankness hung over Silom like a wet blanket, but the Pong is always improved by a shower. After a hard rain, the RLD feels…not clean…it’s like the rain rinsed off the most recent layer of funk and that’s all. The grunge that was ground into the nooks and crannies of the Pong back when Tony Poe ran Air America out of an office on Soi 1 will never be fully washed away.
Bada Bing had four punters and a dozen decent girls. A pro tip for any horndog who wants to trawl for easy clunge is to Pong on a Sunday. There’s little to no competition, and the girls are easy pickings.
Four fresh faces adorned the stage in King’s 1, which was half-full by 22.00. ‘Twas the same in King’s Corner, and Pink Panther at 22.30 though none of my galpals where there. I wasn’t surprised. They all seem to’ve collectively agreed to take Sundays off. Knowing it’d be the same situation in Cowboy, I slid over there anyway. At both NanaP and Cowboy, I have narrowed my gogo go-to’s to two: Twister/WhiskeyGG and Rainbow/Dollhouse respectively. Rainbow houses many old friends from The Strip, so I always have a warm body to lean against. On Sunday, ‘Twas Bee and Aom, both of whom seem so relieved to lay eyes on me you’d think I was their dealer. And I suppose I am, of sorts. I provide a quick fix of familiarity, safety, and consistency in their world, which has remained in an upturned state ever since the shameful police closure of those 3 now infamous bars inPong where no one did anything to merit a shutdown. Speaking of, one of those bars has been purchased and will reopen under a new moniker—Octopus—on the 5th, which is tomorrow if you’re reading this at the time of posting. But I digress.
Bee was a chatterbox on Sunday. She’s still terrified of Chinese tourists and whatever Covid strain they might be spreading in the redlight. I told her there’s nothing to fear until the next virus is “accidentally” released, and she should relax and enjoy life while she can. Aom barely speaks. She’s content to sit close, reaching out with a reassuring touch on the thigh, making knowing eye contact, and exchanging smiles. It’s a talent she has—connecting without speaking as if we’re both in on a secret that need not be named.
Dollhouse is always a party. The girls have a good time regardless of punter interaction. They could easily entertain themselves even with no audience. And I suppose that’s why I like the place. There’s an air of optimism that remains consistent from visit to visit. The girls are downright cheery. I’ve no galpals in there, so I blend in with the rest of the tourists, unless a fan breaks from the crowd and tries to chat me up. It almost never happens because my fans literally number in the 10s but from time to time someone will say hello. Such encounters horrify me. My goal is to go unnoticed at all times. After one SML I bailed back to Silom and the safety of my bed.
On Monday, it pissed down so hard I couldn’t get out my door. Tuesday wasn’t much better but when my harem girl said she had to schlep to Nana at half 9, I wasn’t having it. I got us a taxi and flopped down in Twister at 21.45. The only galpal I spotted was Nat (formerly of Glamour-A-Gogo). Nat is built like a brick shithouse, with a full back tattoo that extends over one ass cheek and down the entire length of her left leg. She always wears black leather thigh-high boots. The sight of her is downright pornographic. What I love about her is, she’s very patient with me when we sit together because I can’t help but play with her giant boobs. The girls all wear skin-colored stickers over their nipples, and I always peel them back so I can get at those nips. It’s like unwrapping a tiny circular Christmas present. It’s one of the few advantages of knowing these girls for years and years. They tolerate just about anything from me.
On Wednesday I only Ponged, thanks to a harem girl who refused to get dressed and go home unto 22.00. King’s 1 had 10 new faces. There in fact a trio of perfect 10s in there now, plus at least as many 9s. Offy, who I’d been grooming for my harem, somehow put on 3 kilos in a week, relegating her back to the back burner. From K1 I skipped across to Radio City for a Jim Beam followed by a black Russian and a Drew Estate Herrera Esteli, serenaded by a middle schooler on the violin and a drunk Italian tourist singing CCR covers.
From there, I Bing’d. They had a packed stage and were half full with punters. Granted, it was early. Well, early for the Pong but late for this old chunk of petrified wood. I’d sped through 3 gogos by then and had to call it quits. It’s a real inconvenience when a harem girl wants to visit later in the evening. I prefer an early rendezvous followed by a leisurely Pong.
On Thursday I started out at Nana, with a plate of fish and chips in Blarney Stone and a pint of Heiny (I always forget that Heineken is one of the only beers in Thailand that isn’t made with GMO grains). The plate sported two large fillets…rectangular in shape, which was unnerving…and tartar sauce that more closely resembled salad cream in look, consistency, and flavor. Their ketchup was a brand out of Australia called Master Food. It tasted like I ate and then burped up a burnt tomato. ‘Twasn’t my intention to slag off Blarney but fucking hell. Salad cream and Aussie tomato sauce? What in the actual fuck. 380b for the food plus 180 for the Heiny.
At 19.59 I waltzed into Billboard and found the carousel empty. That’s how early it was. The girls were all lounging in the punterless booths. But as I made my way to an empty seat, the entire squad stood up in unison and moved like a school of sharks toward the stage. I had to cartwheel out of their path. There wasn’t a single looker among them but a wave of optimism emanated from the crew on that spinning platform that filled the room with a warmth that reached all the way to my withered loins. From there I flitted to WhiskeyGG for a quick vodka and hangout with Sai, who sported a very fetching black lace outfit (see this week’s YouTube slideshow companion—link below), and half a dozen other ex-XXXers. Then on to Twister where Luktal aka Catgirl was moonlighting (normally she’s a Bada Bing girl, where she also hustles by moonlight). She and Oil stole my gum and I recouped by bouncing their tits around like bocci balls. Nat came over to say hi, and the sight of her magnificent body nearly gave me a semi. Speaking of, I witnessed four girls get barfined out of Twister between 20.30 and 21.00. That’s good punter hunting. The early worm catches the bird in BKK.
Oil asked for a plate of 15 chicken wings for 50b and before you say, Wow, that’s a great deal, they weren’t Western wings. They were the scrawny, sinewy, weird part of the wing that farang normally don’t eat. She gnawed on those things like they were morsels of filet mignon. I watched her finish them off with lyrics from The Cure’s “Friday I’m in Love” rolling round my head. From there I hopped a mo’taxi straight to Bing where the stage was packed with 10 girls, eight of which were brand new. They eyed Seven like he was a goddam tourist. After that I was too acutely inebriated to go anywhere else, so I made one quick stop in Pink Panther where I was accosted by Best and Joy. The former still sported a shoulder bruise from her recent motorbike crash (shout-out to The Sugarcubes) with the aforementioned Nat, who had similar injuries. I asked Best why she wasn’t working in Twister with her bestie. She said she’d be over there tomorrow. That’s the new redlight normal. The girls bounce back and forth between RLDs multiple times per week. Seeking out Pong girls in the other two locations is like a game of gogo whack-a-mole.
On Friday I was back t’Nana, starting in Fitzgerald’s for a Heiny pint and a cottage pie. Weird choice, I know, but I didn’t want another plate of fish and chips. ‘Twas my 2nd attempt in as many days to try a location other than Hooter’s. Fitz’s happy hour goes till 8, which like Spinal Tap’s amps is one notch higher than everyone else. It’s smart on the part of Fitz to end their HH precisely when the Plaza opens. It keeps customers drinking in their joint for an extra hour. In fact, anyone who doesn’t do that is a fucking retard. 115b for the Heiny pint plus 340 for the pie. As a Yank, I’m not a huge fan of pies, though I learned to like them while living in Colchester, and my bird at the time’s mum made a mean shepherd’s. Two bites in, though, I remembered why I don’t order ‘em. They’re aggressively bland, in the fashion of typical British fare. This Cali native needs a kick. I was dying for some hot sauce. Or BBQ sauce. Hell, I’dve settled for HP. Alas, the only available condiments were salt and pepper. The pie provided a teeth-melting temperature akin to licking the actual sun and not much else. Speaking of, it turns out that English winter comfort food doesn’t go down well in the sweltering Bangkok heat. I made a mental note right then to stick to Hootz from now on.
I had an appointment to meet up with Jack Nites in the Plaza’s beer garden and so left the pie half-eaten and found Jack, who was halfway through a bottle of Leo. From there we skated up to WhiskeyGG for a miniparty with the ex-XXX girls. Sai once again donned the most fetching black lace lingerie. She gently caressed by ballbag while we both watched Beer shake her moneymaker onstage. ‘Twas a loosely-imitated XXX experience, familiar yet out of place, like when you take your pillow from home on a trip and use it in the hotel. It wasn’t exactly the same, but it was close. I almost suggested to the mamasan that they strip the walls of the garish décor and just copy the look of the old XXX, even to the point of renaming the bar. “Little X,” or something similar.
From there I hit Twister, where I was accosted by four girls all shouting my name. I didn’t recognize a single one. “Seven, how is Patpong now? Have customer or not?” As I spelled out the state of the punter traffic onPong, those girls listened as though I was EF fucking Hutton dishing out stock tips. I told them to stay put, since Twister was going off in the way that only a bigger Nana gogo can. Luktal aka Catgirl was MIA from Twister but I spotted her later on when shifting over t’Pong and Bada Bing, picking her out from the utterly jammed stage. She said ‘hello’ like she always does by running her hand along my shoulder after her rotation.
From there I hiked to Pink Panther. The second I sat down, I was descended upon by Kaew, Joy, and Best who all demanded dinner money. I traded some gentle cooch-grabbing for 60b each. By then, the night had taken on a decidedly blurry haze, and I was able to eke out one more cocktail outside Radio City with a Drew Estate Nasty Fritas.
And that was how I thought my week would end, thanks to the cunting dry holiday on Saturday. But after spending all day on my couch, I suddenly remembered that now, on Buddhist holidays when you can’t buy booze, you can still get looped out of your mind on all the ganja your heart desires. I don’t smoke weed but I’ll gummy the shit out of a dry day like a motherfucker. So I put on a shirt, hustled ‘Pong and swung in to Mellow’s Weed (next to Pink Panther) because on the previous dry day they sold me some sweet edibles, and I wanted the same experience, please and thank you. And then, since I was out, I decided to stroll through the Pong to get a feel for what the place would be like if all the gogos do eventually close. ‘Twas, in a word, grim (see this week’s slideshow, link below). But then, whilst on my sojourn, I happened upon a small, out-of-the-way place where the ladyboss happily served me booze in a paper cup. God bless the sane proprietors in BKK. After putting back a few pints, I made my way home, popped a couple gummies, and watched “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” bloopers until I passed out. Not a bad ending for a not-too-shabby week. Long may this party last.
In other news, it’s gay pride month, and they’re already partying in Silom. Which, I’m not sure how that’s a point of pride anymore. I understand that in the past, gays were marginalized, hated, even brutalized just for being who they are. But that’s not the case anymore. They’re a celebrated class now. They’re the darlings of the West. What’s there to be proud of? Is it pride in the progress they’ve made? Fine, then call it that. It’s no longer dangerous to be gay. LGBT is the new black. At any rate, thank Liberace I’m in Thailand for it, where the gays just celebrate being gay and don’t try to cancel/bludgeon/destroy me for not being gay myself. Thailand is a bastion of actual tolerance, where the straights tolerate the Ls, Bs, Gs, Ts, and Qs and those same people tolerate the straights. Unlike the US, where the protected sex preferences try to simultaneously facefuck and also fist the straightts with their agenda. Have you ever been raped by an ideology? No? Try spending a year in The States. You’ll get a taste of all kinds of woke horse shit you can never wash out of your mouth or anus. But I love the gays in Thailand, because unlike America, they don’t hate me for not being one of them.
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/
Photos of everything in this blog can be found in the YouTube slideshow companion for this post at
https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
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: Avoid gogos with gay male mamasans. They’re handsy, aggressive, and mean. They pick up on the customers. They don’t seem to understand (or maybe they don’t care) that a punter punts for poontang, not pecker. It’s a bad scene. And it’s not always the case, but if you haven’t pre-established working relationships with the papasans, then it’s best to just avoid them all together.
