What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. At time of posting, I’ve already been back in Los Angeles for two days. While you’re enjoying that beach beer in Jomtien or snacking at a rooftop bar in BKK, I’m suffering through the oppressive, shitty, overpriced, suffocating, woke, rioting, communist hellscape that is California. Everything about this place sucks, except for the food and wine. I’m fixating on both the way a prisoner stares through the bars of his cell at the lone green tree on a hill in the distance. My harem are already asking for loans, and you, poor reader, will be deprived of witty redlight-related journaling for the foreseeable. The only one making out good from this situation is Bob the Knob—blind, talentless gogo photographer and employed content writer for Dave the Rave. He’s now free to visit Patpong without the fear that I’ll punch him in the face. Congrats Bob, you feckless bag of shit. Enjoy it.
Happily, I did manage to get out to the Pong a few times last week, before departing TLOS with a tear in one eye. Here’s how it shook out…
On a very steamy midweek evening I decided to have a Pong, since I’d soon be stuck in Cali for several weeks with zero chance of spending time in the company of lingerie-clad dancing girls. The Night Market was lousy with lo-sea (low season) tourists. K1 had a gang of new staff who didn’t know me from Adam. That always chafes my cheeks. 12 years of nearly nightly Pongs and I still have to explain my baronhood to the newcomers. The past few visits, I’ve seen the same nipon slimeball in all the King’s. Typically you don’t see Japanese slimeballs but this guy had that vibe. He’ll walk in a joint like he owns it, do laps around the stage, scrutinizing the girls, turn up his nose, and walk out. More than once I saw him call a girl over and on closer inspection send her packing. He was quite the minge snob, despite being short, chubby, and low waisted with a receding hairline. A lone American entered and sat next to me. In my peripheral view I could see him trying to make eye contact and pegged him as one of those scared noobs who seeks out a fellow tourist to play wingman. I necked my drink and escaped though the side door to K3, where the goth girl who rejected my conc offer shouted my name from the stage. I jumped up and punched her in the ass cheek. She was one of only two gals onstage, an indicator that the joint would likely shut and move them over to K1 for the night. The nipon slimeball followed me into K3. He sat staring at one girl’s ass with his mouth agape. I read somewhere that not closing your mouth is a sign of retardation. A dancer who I know as Nok was in the next rotation. She’s slim and hot, but she looks like she’s been run through a few too many times. I mean, I’d still let her blow me, and judging by her lo-sea hungry eyes, it might be on the table. Perhaps as a moving-house gift to myself before relocating to Ptown.
‘Twas strictly chubbers at K2 and no customers save for yours truly. I ordered a black ruskie to wash the bitter taste of vodka sodas out my mouth. One can only drink those uninspired but low-calorie cocktails for so long without going insane. I’m repeating myself, but the one positive result of visiting California is the cornucopia of culinary sensations it offers, not the least of which is wine. I looked forward to imbibing of nothing but on this trip. That and In-n-Out, Tommy’s, and El Indio—voted LA’s best burrito, if you don’t get shot while ordering. Its in a dodgy part of town. Also a specific taco truck outside Dodger Stadium. Goddam, I’m going to pig out.
In K Corner I was simultaneously wai’d by four gals all looking for a hundy tip. A different lass caught my eye, though, and after a moment I realized I’d nailed her back in 2014. She was briefly a concubine before getting knocked up and putting on lots of weight. Now, she’d shed the extra kilos and looked almost as good as she did 9 years ago. I swatted her on the ass and asked how she got so slim. She mumbled something about having no money to eat. I said it was a good look for her. There are 10 girls in the corner whom I’d happily take to bed—more than any other gogo in Bangkok.
Over at Virgin, two 12-girl rotations of half chubsters and half hotskinnies adorned the stage like decorations atop an unwedding cake. Everyone in there is hungry. A monger looking to shorttime, or even just have affection lavished upon him, could have a field day in there. I sipped a Heiney and watched while the girls had themselves a good time, oblivious to the three customers in the joint.
Earlier in the week I had to pick up snus at The Game, Cuban cigars, and kamagra for my buddies in Cali, because snus and Cubans are both illegal in Commiefornia. As I walked up Sukhumvit it started to piss down so I swung into Hooter’s for some wings and a Federbrau. From Nana BTS up to soi 4, lonesome freelancers peddled their wares. More than a few were perched inside Bunny. All the customers skewed older than me, providing a glimmer of hope that there’s something of a mongering life to be had once I’ve aged out of banging hot 20-year-olds. One day soon, I’ll be one of those crusty loners sipping a daybeer with a middle-aged Thai ballbuster hanging on my shoulder. It’s not a bad pasture to be put out to. Meanwhile all my friends back in LA have nothing to look forward to but year after year of sexless, tense, criticism-rife wives and nary a moment’s peace.
Speaking of glimmers of hope, after two months of constant digital come-ons from 50something women on Thaifriendly, I finally got three Ptown younghotties on the hook who should prove worthy replacements for my Bangkok harem, lifting a weight from my shoulders that had me losing sleep.
My number four concubine will drop everything and run over to blow me if I merely send a text. Conc number three was scheduled, but she was kept late at uni so I sent a BJ emoji to conc four. She arrived at 20.30 and was done by 21.00 whereupon I Ponged. K1 had 3 open seats and a dozen dancers sat with punters. I actually counted eight white dudes, which might’ve been a record. Pim and her friend spotted me from the stage. She made a beeline to me. I told her I’d be gone to America for three weeks and then move to Ptown. She nearly cried. “But you’re the only one who buys me drinks.” I knew it was a lie, but it’s a gogo dancer’s way of saying she’ll miss you.
The King’s 3 stage was at max capacity with just five customers. Half were new faces. A nipon came in, walked around the stage, acted like he would leave, then sat down and ordered a girl over. But when she got close, he changed his mind and gave the crossed-arm X sign. She was confused for a moment, then returned to dancing. I understand rejecting a chick if you get a better look and realize you made a mistake, but if it was me, I’d buy her a drink. It’s the least a monger can do, especially when it was his error in the first place. But the Toshibas don’t give a shit. They’re shopping for clunge. The Thais aren’t people. They’re prepackaged vagine. For a culture so obsessed with etiquette, they’re sure a bunch of racist, classist fuckers.
Kings 2 had 15 in a rota with four newskinnies in the mix. No one id call a galpal was there, and I didn’t have the energy to ensnare anyone else, despite 6 or 7 giving the hungry eye, so I just necked my vodka and bailed to K Corner, where two Mitsubishis walked out on their bill just as I sat down. 30 dancers in a rota, more than half were 7s and 8s. I’ll say it again—that gogo is lousy with hot clunge. In all the King’s bars now, they get the outdoor hostesses up onstage throughout the night in their cocktail dresses for some awkward two-stepping, as if to let customers know, “Hey, you can nail these broads as well.”
Twenty agency girls rocked out in a rota in Virgin. The veterans were mingled in amongst them like chocolate chips in a cookie. Lots of hungry gals in that joint. Any monger who wants an easy lay would do well to hit up that gogo. Two ladies independently made a play for Seven. But I’d already got my nut, plus I’m not about to pay 4k for shorttime. I politely declined both moneyhoneys, albeit with some feeling of regret. Passing up easy clunge is like leaving good food on a dinner plate.
On the night before my flight, my number 2 conc messaged to say she’d be coming over. After her very sweet, loving bj I decided it’d be wrong to not Pong, and so I did.
K1 was dripping with salaciousnes. Many veterans have returned from parts unknown—perhaps an Isaan sebatical. Once the nest egg runs out, they scurry back to the pole like homing pigeons.
A newbie sex tourist was sat next to me. Thankfully he didn’t try to talk. Instead he shouted down a galpal of mine to have a drink. “Yo! Yo! You want drink? You drink?” I think he was Scandinavian. She wai’d me as she sat down, making the scene awkward. But good on him, he barely took notice. He tried talking to her in broken English, and was very handsy. The off duty gals watched with bemusement as she tried to fend off his groping without killing the potential transition. Then she said she wanted to get her phone and scampered backstage. I slipped over to K3 where again, it was hot clunge central. How or why or by what vehicle there were so many smoking hot babes on poles that night is beyond my reckoning. Maybe it was the universe giving me a parting gift before traversing half the globe to stew in the cesspool of America. As they all glared my way, it dawned on me I’d gotten each of their Lines on separate drunk outings.
Kings 2 was straight chunkified. I sat in front and the gall directly in front of me onstage, a veteran I’ve known for around 10 years, asked if I still carry lollipops in my mansatchel. It’s a habit I abandoned after Covid but it just so happened I had a few in my bag. I handed one to her, and that set off a chain reaction of envy among the other bovines. But I wasn’t about to waste good Chupa Chups on fatties. No, sir. At the rotation, a very pretty newskinny took the place of the loli beggar. But she was too skinny.
And I’m going to say something here that as far as I know, no one else has noticed. There’s some kind of disease running through Bangkok gogo dancers that’s making them too thin. It’s something I thought I’d never say, but it’s true. Is it Covid-related? I couldn’t guess. But I know far too many girls who’ve gone skeleton-thin through no effort of their own. Three of my harem are woefully underweight all of a sudden, and recently two galpals—former gogo dancers—have died, apparently by just wasting away from some undefined ailment. Something’s not right in the redlight. There, I’ve said it. And someone should get to the bottom of it.
I spotted two new magnificent physical specimens in K Corner. They’re consistently the best gogo in Bangkok for hot, young skinnies. When everyone shows up for work at K1 they give the Corner a run for their money but no other bar comes close to the robust fuckworthiness of the girls in the Corner.
You know, there are a lot of sex tourists in this redlight life, but few true whoremongers. There are skills one can learn from years in the gogos, but there’s something to be said for raw whoremaster talent. The easiest tell is when some dickhead walks into the bar, usually clad in black jeans, looks around for five seconds and leaves, and in the case of King’s Corner, missing half a dozen 10s milling about. In the redlight realm, it’s akin to being retarded.
In other news, I apparently picked the exact right day to flee Bangkok, because you mongers got stuck with two dry days and no gogos to punt in. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what a travesty. I hope y’all were able to endure. For this weary traveler, it meant a traffic-free trip to Suvarnabhumi followed by no queues at Immigration.
Low season might be a golden ticket for cheap holidaymakers but it bodes bare for gogo dancers. This week, half a dozen past paramours who hadn’t reached out for years suddenly remembered Seven loans money to cash-strapped strumpets. My Line and Facebook were inundated with long-lost clunge asking for a handout. I was as generous as I could be, knowing I’d need to hold onto most of my cash to spend on steak and wine in L.A.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is a second photo album of gogo dancer Joy, plus a collection of holiday selfies from a bunch of former XXX Lounge girls.
The link is here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-joy-part-2-and-friends/
but only if you become a Member. The price is $1 per month ($12 per annum), 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: If I had to guess the nationalities of the 10 guys who read this blog, I’d bet they’re all from the UK/Europe, so this tip likely won’t apply. But if you find yourself doing a transpacific flight (or I guess, going somewhere else in the Orient), I recommend either Singapore Air or Starlux (out of Taiwan). They’re both fantastic, and beat out all other Asian and American-owned airlines by a country mile.
