What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. So, it’s looking like the rumors of war over the past weeks were premature. Sure, Iran declared a fatwah on Trump, and Putin’s gearing up to flatten Ukraine permanently. China is still planning to take Taiwan. But it all seems suspended in the air, like a trapeze swinger at an apex, floating for an endless moment before crashing back to Earth. The crazed leftist in the US keep saying they’re about to unleash hell, but so far, it’s been just a smoldering flame. And we, in the safe haven of Thailand, wait. We wait for the hammer to fall. We wait to see if it’ll affect us. We wait to see if we’re far enough outside the blast zone of world war to—not just survive, but thrive in this adult Candyland. The proverbial Sword of Damocles hangs above our heads, thanks to warmongering cunts from all four corners of the map. Or if you prefer a more musically pleasing analogy, we are all, like Freddy Mercury once said, waiting for the hammer to fall. By this time next week, I’ll be embedded in Los Angeles like a rabbit in a briar patch. Until then, though, I’m mongering like there’s no tomorrow. Because there might not be.
On Sunday I woke up with a craving for blueberry muffins—a guaranteed source of torture in Bangkok. I gave up after hitting 10 bakeries. In my depressed state, I stopped at Silom Edge for moo daeng 75b and cha manow 39b at Plearn Pooong. The tea was the best I’ve had since moving from Krabi, where the lady next door used to make it with tender loving care. Thinking back, I realize how lucky I was to cut my Thai teeth in a tiny jungle town in the south, as opposed to Bangkok or Phuket. With only one 7-11 and zero foreign or chain restaurants, the food was authentic and exceptional, made by hand from scratch and bursting with flavor. And sure, you can get great fare from a thousand noodle carts and back-alley pop-ups in BK, but finding the best like looking for a needle in a stack of needles. In those first two years living lo-so in Ao Leuk, I learned to take excellence for granted. Who knew how easy it is to fuck up lime tea?
After a long nap, my number 4 conc came over. She arrived in a state of distress. “Seven, I’m sorry, I have period.” Like I was going to be mad that we couldn’t do the no-pants dance. I don’t know why I have to keep telling these girls, as long as I’m exploding, I don’t care how it happens. After she left, I should’ve gone to bed. But it was raining, and I love a rainy redlight. It means fewer tourists, and boy howdy was the Pong quiet. The evening was dreamlike. 23 degrees Celsius and a light sprinkle. The K1 stage was at half capacity but 4 of 5 were stunners.
King’s 2 was nearly empty. One old local sat in a corner with his usual girl. We exchanged a nod and went on with our lives. An Indian dude had one of the chunky hostesses over to a VIP area to dance solo for him. He stood next to her, pointing his finger up and down to the beat of the song. I wish I could be that oblivious to looking like a dork. But there’s a voice of decorum (dorkorum for short) in my head that prevents it.
There’s a demographic of sex tourists that locals refer to as one-week millionaires. They save up for a year, come to TLOS for 10 days or so, blow their entire budget in the redlight, and then go back to their job at ASDA to start the process over. And I don’t begrudge these guys for doing it. If I couldn’t permanently escape my Western life, and the only way to bang chicks was one week per year in a faraway land, I’d do it, too. Now, in low season, there’s a new breed of one-weeker: the bargain-budget thousandaire. They had to wait for plane and hotel prices to drop into their range. And maybe their stint will be four or five days instead of a week. But they’re getting their swerve on as best they can. It’s their cockiness, however, that leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Once they’ve got their feet wet, barfined a couple, longtimed a couple, suddenly they’re the sultan of Brunei. They put on airs like they’re DiCaprio up in this motherfucker. And I know I shouldn’t be hard on them. They’re just shaking off the cloudy spot of misandry that shrouds their home country like a plague. I suppose I’d feel cocky too if I’d finally got my dick wet after years of solitary scamdemic desperation. But I’m like an old lion watching a youngster get his first kill. Yeah, sure, OK, be proud. Take a victory lap. But then sit back down. You poked a working girl. You didn’t cure cancer.
At midweek, I hit up Soi Cowboy. Man, was it ever sparse. Kazy Kozy was shut. I’d love it if they changed to a gogo, or reverted back to the Old Dutch Corner restaurant. My first stop was Crazy House. The first rota was all chubs except one. The 2nd rota was even chunkier. One gal yelled at a punter who kept staring at her naked vagine. Funny, I thought that was the whole point. He pivoted by offering a ladydrink. The barmaid said he had to buy two for a total of 440. He accepted. She went from griping about her vajay to rubbing it against him along with her bare fake tits, trying her best to coax out a barfine. 180b sml. There were a surprising number of Thai dudes in there ogling the girls.
Baccara was half-full of punters with eight dancers in a rota. Only one was smoking hot, though she was pushing 30. A vodka soda costs 210b. Jesus, Mary and Buddha. I’m never going back there again.
Dollhouse’s first rota looked like a stress test for the stage. ‘Twas 12 chunky monkeys twerking blubber around like uncooked pizza dough.
One semi-hot clam kept staring at me from the stage, and it shook me at first because she looked exactly like Fook, a former XXX Lounge dancer who I’d bedded once and who died two year ago. ‘Twas like seeing a gogo ghost. A goghost. I’m mildly alarmed when I think of former giks who’ve died. Most were from motorbike accidents or drug overdoses, but I don’t know anyone else who has had so many former sex partners kick over.
Rainbow was a bust. Just two bovines onstage and no sign of galpal Bee.
Cowboy is deceptively small, mainly because there are so many bars no self-respecting monger would enter. Rio, Midnite, Spice Girls, Deja Vu, and Sahara are all rip-off scams. Suzy Wong is fat chicks and overpriced drinks. The handful of small bars are non-starters. That leaves Tilac, Rainbow, Cowboy2, Long Gun, Bad Beach, and Dollhouse. Slim Pickings.
From Rainbow, I had one in Tilac and one on the Long Gun terrace before hightailing it t’Pong where the first rota in K1 had two new 10s. The boss bought my drink and nearby nipons wondered why I got bows and wais from all the staff. I’ll be honest, I’m going to miss that treatment when I move to Ptown. For the first few months at least, I’ll be seen as a goddam tourist along with all the other goddam tourists. But Seven isn’t one to rest on his laurels. When a new adventure presents itself, the ballsy answer.
In K3, the bird who rejected my harem invite was all over me like white on rice. I think she was trying to flirt, but she failed utterly. I smacked her ass and flicked her vajay and then went to drink outside because it was too cold in the gogo. The Night Market was rammed with TOTCs—that’s my anacronym for tourists on the cheap, meaning they waited for low season to have their eatpraylove in TLOS.
Before dipping outside, I noticed a long-haired farang was sat taking photos of the stage, while pretending unsuccessfully to be browsing Instagram. The server came over and told him to stop. He lied and said he wasn’t taking photos. A minute later the DJ cut the music to say “no photo no photo” over the mic. Personally I wanted to break a barstool over his head. Only Seven gets to take photos in the gogo. Five minutes later, he barfined a little chubster and took her to the King’s shorttime hotel around the corner. Two minutes after that, King’s 3 closed and the girls all moved over to K1.
After I’d hit all relevant gogos, I caught a wild butthair and slipped into Groovin’ High Jazz Club, a joint I hadn’t visited in many, many months. Imagine my surprise when I found it completely full of cunts. Back when I frequented this place, I’d typically be one of four or five patrons. Now it’s apparently the hip place for every cunty cunt in Silom. The waiter spoke to me in English. I answered in Thai. He replied in English. I responded in Thai. It was disconcerting. I ordered a glass of Bordeaux. They’d run out. I switched to champagne. The last open seat got taken, and I’m not just talking about inside. The whole patio was also full of goddam douchers of the highest douching order. I wished I had an AK-47. There’s nothing worse on this goddam Earth than pretentious newl- local 30somethings who think they’re the first to ever move to Bangkok. There wasn’t even a live band. What the fuck were those ferocious fuckwagons doing there? My murderous rage nearly reached a boiling point, and I remembered gratefully that moving here likely saved me from life in prison, because if I’d stayed in the West I’ve no doubt I would’ve killed someone by now. Even still, I can’t say that I won’t. There’s a list of shitheads I’d like to send to a dirt nap. If you read my posts regularly you probably know some of them.
Several minutes passed before my drink finally arrived. By then the band was setting up. ‘Twas a four-piece of Asian dudes. They had a loose, carefree style led by heavy snare and meandering piano with a guitar and bass trying to keep time. I’ve seen dozens of acts in this bar. This one didn’t make the top 10. Groovin’ High was no longer a place of peace for this worn-out whoremaster. It’s now a teeming, seething cauldron of douchebaggery. Of foreigners desperately seeking coolness and their tolerant Thai dates unsure how to act. After the clamoring instrumental, a Thai woman joined the band and grabbed a microphone. Her voice was adequate in the way that all Asian lounge singers are. She hit most of the notes as they ran through a set of 70s soft rock classics that tend to make GenXers like me want to puke.
A weeknight Pong visit was lousy with tourists. Maybe the low-season bargain bastard will be a new thing, and not just onPong. Silom Road had hordes of assholes milling about or trying to find venues using unreliable maps. Earlier in the day, MBK was packed with mostly Muslims, plus some families and solo eatpraylove twats. Where the new low budget tourists don’t transfer over is the gogo. Ain’t no broke fucker got cash to blow in there. I assume they’ll hook onto some Beach Road street meat over a weekend in Ptown. Only six girls took the stage at 20.00 in King’s 1. Two were quite fetching. Skinny, taut, sixpack abs. Just what Seven’s doctor ordered. But since I knew they’d quote 4 or 5k after the barfine, I was content to just watch. I wondered, if I didn’t move to Pattaya just yet, after months of no shorttimers, would they consent to lowering the price. It just isn’t worth waiting around to find out.
In what appears to be a new move by the bosses, Kings 2 and 3—joints that normally open around 20.30ish—were running at 20.00. I was the only customer in both. K2 had a couple new heifers plus two newskinnies.
King’s Corner was, per usual, a glorious spectacle of beautiful clunge. I spotted four 10s in just the first rota. Two separate pairs of frat bros came in. The peacocking and feigned confidence emanating off them was almost as thick as their cologne. The two duos actually acknowledged each other as if to say, “Sup dude bro.” I nearly threw up in my mouth. I don’t begrudge a poor sex tourist for mongering within his budget. It’s the arrogance that grinds my gears. You’re not high class, buddy. You’re not even a one-week millionaire. You’re a four-day thousandaire. So drop the “God’s gift to women” act.
Virgin continues to languish in the dark over on Soi 2. The entire street is utterly dead. It’s too bad, because there are more than half a dozen hotties in there. One such vixen and old-school veteran always catches my eye, until I realize I fucked her around six years ago. She’s one of those trickster hotties who, once you get her naked in bed, falls apart like a box of loose Legos. She was as awful at sex as I am at masking my hatred for tourists.
An old Patpong warrior, Nat, was over in the bathtub, mostly naked and shivering. I was shocked. Given her fame and sexual prowess, I never thought I’d see the likes of her suffering through a bathtub situation. I popped a hundy in her undies as a means of empathizing with her soapy circumstance.
After that, I wasn’t ready to go home so I dipped into Groovin’ High again. In stark contrast to the previous crowded visit, I was one of only two customers listening to a pianist and female singer who were positively heavenly. They were still out of Bordeaux, but the server brought me a glass of Burgundy that hit the spot.
In other news, I discovered an animal in Lumphini Park that’s worse than the lizards—tattooed farang gym bros and hoes. The majority of people in the park are Thais. You’ve got oldies doing Tai Chi and playing Mahjong, chubby guys and gals trying hard to get in shape, mums and dads pushing prams, and a handful of in-shape dudes training for marathons. And then you’ve got the farang. The goddam
Digital Nomad Visa scheme means the city is lousy with remote workers who’re veritably colonizing Thailand with their snooty attitudes and bad body art. It’s my chief worry when thinking of my move to Pattaya. Not the middle-class Millennial shitbags. It’s a different demographic down at the beach. And you already know what I’m going to say. Walking Street’s new nickname of “Little India” isn’t accidental. I am unsure how well or how badly I’ll assimilate.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is Part 2 of gogo dancer Bee, who has posed for me in the bar and also sent home-selfies to me over the years. The link is here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-bee-part-2/
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 put 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.
I’ve started to sell my artwork in digital download bundles, so if you fancy some gogo dancer-related pictures, mostly nude Thai chicks photoshopped as paintings, you can get ‘em on the cheap at my Etsy shop: https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
Right now I have several bundles of four to five pictures each (as shown below) for under $10 US apiece.
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: It’s 11 hours after initially posting this post, and I suddenly realized I forgot a PTPS, mainly because I was smashed when I uploaded it. So here goes…never underestimate the technical prowess of tiny Thais on the 4th floor of MBK. A couple months ago, I got water in the part of my phone where you connect the charger, and it causes two very annoying green lines to appear on my screen. I thought I’d have to buy a whole new phone (30k baht), but on a whim I asked a random Thai techy in the mall and he fixed it up like new for 4k. God, I love this country.
