What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. OK more accurately, last week was my “last week” in Bangkok—at least, as a Bangkokian. At time of posting, I’m officially a Ptowner. I’m not gonna lie, I had some trepidation about leaving the Big Mango. For 12 years, I lived like a king in that beautiful bastard of a city. In that time, I lucked out in a way that had never happened before. I acquired a harem of rotating 8s and 9s, plus two 10s (who long since left me and) who made my Caligula-like life an intoxicating blur of naked ecstasy, and indeed friendship, for over a decade. But all good things come to an end, and the caliber of my harem took a huge hit early in 2025 when my number one, number two, and number four concs all called it quits. One and Four got possessive Thai bfs who won’t let them out of their sight. Number two got an equally possessive tomboy. That left me with a quartet of gals who, despite being lovely, aren’t at the level of hotness that I’m aiming for. Combine that with a new retirement budget, increased inflation and a strong baht, and this old poon hound was suddenly ill-suited for BK.
And so, the time came to make a change. It’s not the first twist in this dreamlike Thai life. I had two good years in Krabi before jumping over to Phuket for a year. Granted, I didn’t have a harem back then. Just a couple of wannabe girlfriends and side pieces. Nothing like the incredible run of incomprehensibly awesome fwbs that blessed me for the past 12 years. So while changing locations ain’t new, starting over in the aftermath of so much good clunge-luck is. Even so, I’m not too worried about it. I mean, I’m a little worried. I didn’t get better-looking in those 12 years, so trying to catch lightning in a bottle a second time is probably unrealistic. But I’m up for the challenge. First, though, I had to endure the previous seven days in Patpong. Here’s how that shook out…
On Sunday I got a BJ from conc number 4 and then for lack of anything better to do, headed t’Pong where the host outside Radio City, whom I’ve known since the years he worked at Thigh Bar, pulled me inside, complaining he had no customers. He said they’d shutter and move everyone to Bada Bing in an hour or so. It’s the brutal effect of low season. Not every bar can open every day during the lean months. He set down an ashtray and said I could smoke a cigar if I wanted, seeing as how there were no other punters. I didn’t. I prefer to smoke where I can people-watch.
In King’s 1, there were no girls onstage and the music was off. One rotation sat outside. The other was perched on stools around the stage. I asked a girl why she wasn’t dancing. She indicated toward the DJ as if it was his fault. Then Pim came and sat down, explaining the music had been out for quite some time. And so we all sat in silence for the next five minutes. I tried to engage the girls in a chorus of “Do Tur Tum” by Job to Do, but no one joined in. They just found it very amusing. As Pim idly rubbed my arm she said, “Seven you have so much hair.” Then she pointed at her arm and said, “I have none.” I told her my balls were as bald as her arm, which she found hysterical. A mamasan overheard part of it and asked her what was so funny. Pim explained and the mamasan burst out laughing, then the five closest off-duty dancers wanted in on the joke so for the next minute, a bunch of harlots talked about the shaven state of my balls while pointing at Pim’s arm and making ballsack motions with their hands. Then the rotation happened and Pim went up to dance. I paid and bailed to K Corner, where the hostess ushered me to a seat and a barmaid set down a SML without taking my drink order. Id’ve preferred a vodka but I appreciated the effort so I let it go. It’s a Thailand problem, getting a beer when you want a cocktail. The dancers were hungry. They eyed me like money sharks on the verge of a feeding frenzy. The trick in that situation is to keep shifting tour gaze and not making eye contact for too long. Otherwise they think they’ve lured you in.
In K2, I could’ve sworn the mamasan leaned in and said “vodka soda?” so I nodded. She brought me a goddam SML. I guess I didn’t have these jokers as trained up as I thought. What good is hitting the same gogos every night for a decade if the staff can’t get your drink order right? In a fit of frustration, I necked the beer and stumbled home.
Monday I saw the FB post by a Pattaya news outlet who interviewed Duncan from Mot’s Services about Bangkok Bank freezing expats’ accounts in Thailand’s constant effort to out-stupid itself, so after a quick shag with conc number 2 I fled to the ATM to pull cash out, just in case. And since that already put me halfway between my front door and the Pong, I slid over for a quick leer session. As I sat down in King’s 1, a young farang was leaving with his barfine. He held onto her hand like he was afraid she’d run off at the first opportunity. There’s nothing quite like the naivete of new sex tourists. They disbelieve the act is real right up until penetration. I remember that feeling. My first time was on Koh Samui, and a lo-so blonde brown country girl with a tiger tattoo. (I wrote a song about her. You can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ff7KuXJqc-Y ) I couldn’t relax until the following morning when I turned on the TV and she squealed “Sacoobie Doo!” We watched cartoons and formed a bond that lasted a couple of years. She even stayed with me on Samui for a month when I house sat four a couple of teachers.
Ms. 5k tried to sit in my lap, but she already blew her chance when she rejected my harem offer, so I slipped away from her descending ass cheeks. I did give her a lollipop as compensation. Handing out Chupa Chups was an old habit that I gave up during Covid. I’m not sure yet if I’ll bring it back. Right now it’s something of a test run. As I sat in King’s 1, knowing I’d be off to Ptown in a matter of days, I realized I’ll miss this soi and its collection of hot minge. But it ain’t enough to make a monger stay. Too many factors have come together to force this move.
Out on the terrace with a b ruskie and banana Backwoods I was surrounded by gogo dancers. The boss’ new strategy is to scatter a few birds in lingerie out front to attract punters (frunters for short, copyright BKK7). Since Covid, the cops had clamped down on parading girls around the entrances of bars in Patpong. I guess he must’ve made a deal to bring back that eye candy. Speaking of, Super Pussy got a plastic Marilyn Monroe statue and propped it up in the beer garden, as if anyone would believe the girls in the ping pong show would look remotely like her. I love Thai people, but their capacity for bad business ideas knows no bounds.
In Virgin I got chosen by a girl onstage who looked semifamiliar. She wai’d me so I assumed she knew me, but if that were the case, she should know I can’t be chosen. Her staring, smiling, and waving got to the uncomfortable point. Usually when you go out of your way to look over every other gash in the joint, the girl gets the hint that you can’t be got, but this weirdo just wouldn’t let it go. Even after typing all that into my phone, I looked up and she was locked in from the stage in a kind of “I’m going to boil your rabbit” stare. Luckily, Nat was sat over by the bathtub so I went up and slipped some money in her bra, and that finally got the psycho to relent.
After Virgin, I didn’t feel like staying out, but since I’m no quitter, I went back around to Soi 1 to hit K Corner. The girls were sensational per usual. Two newbie tourists walked in looked around, and left. ‘Twas a familiar case of the uninitiated getting overwhelmed. It was too much sexual input for their soft vanilla brains. When you present a Western man with easy clunge, sometimes he just shuts down. I see it all the time. So many first-time perverts can’t even look a gogo dancer in the eyes. Inevitably though, they land their first barfine. Then their second and third. A week later they’ve swung to the other extreme, regarding every girl as an easy lay, filled to the brim with false confidence, unable differentiate between deserved adoration and bought attention.
As I sat there perusing the poontang (Pongtang), I tried to project my mind into the future, months from now when I return t’Pong for a weekend, and the feelings this view might conjure. I wondered whether I’d regret leaving it behind. My strong sense was that I won’t, but we’ll just have to wait and see. I can’t think that, if I stayed, any of the hot ass in there would be part of my harem. Their asking price is simply too high. I’d likely still be with the same tired foursome that I’ve just abandoned.
K2 was actually somewhat busy. A girl who turned down a spot in my harem stared from the stage with that oblong, unfocused ketamine expression that I’ve come to loathe. Call it another bullet dodged, because although her body is incredible, it doesn’t do a man any good if—once he gets her home—she’s a disaster in the sack. And these Ket addicts do tend to be that. There were many new faces in K2, and a handful were quite fetching. The 2nd rota was chubbier, but even it had a couple rough diamonds mixed in. I have no doubt if I was staying in BK, I’d eventually capitulate and barfine three or four girls out of there, over the course of 6 months or so. And no doubt I’d get locked into too-high fees for the privilege. Better to roll the dice with the cooter cornucopia (cootercopia) of Ptown. There’s bound to be chicks at least as hot, at half the long-term maintenance price.
On Wednesday afternoon I met Jack Nites at Shenanigan’s Patpong for a food photo shoot. He always invites me along to eat everything afterward so it doesn’t go to waste. It’s the only time I’m in a bar or pub sans headphones, and the place was blasting Adele, Dua Lipa, and Taylor Swift. God in Heaven, what an auditory sewage pipe of dross. Like if someone had diarrhea spewing out their mouth, set to the same stupid, redundant, generic melody. I immediately thought of Huxley’s Brave New World and a dystopian future where the common people were not permitted to hear good music, and instead got stuck with childlike jingles similar to TV adverts that kept them dumbed-down. It’s not science fiction. It was future prediction.
On Thursday my number 1 conc came over for the last time. As she went down on me, my eyes lingered on her back tattoo—a tattoo that I first saw back in 2012. At that time, she spurned my advances, claiming lesbianship and swearing she’d never gone with a customer and never would. As the years passed, we became good friends, good enough to trust me enough to trade skin for rent money. I think it took around 3 or 4 years for her to relent. Since then she’s been coming over between once a week and twice a month, so that tattoo is a focal point of emotion for this old gogo rat. I promised I’d come to see her once in a while, but there’s no way I can back it up. I’ve no idea where this redlight life will take me, or if I’ll ever see that tattoo again. It gave me a bit of mid-fellatio melancholy. Luckily, I’d popped a Kamagra an hour before, so all went as planned.
After sundown I got the stupid idea that I should see Soi Cowboy one last time, and so off I schlepped, only to realize once I got there that I have no sentimental attachment to that redlight, and immediately wanted to leave. Instead, though, I had a slice at Capone’s and hit Dollhouse and Rainbow.
In Dollhouse for a 110b happy hour house vodka pour, the DJ busted out Just Can’t Get Enough by Depeche Mode. Not the studio version but the live one from their 2024 world tour. He followed it with Pet Shop Boys’ cover of Always On My Mind and Blue Heaven by Belinda Carlisle. Then two perfect gogo bar songs: The Outfield (I just wanna use your love, tonight) and Michael Sembello (She’s a maniac, dancin’ like she’s never danced before). 19 chunky maniacs crowded round the poles. There was one hottie among them but she got snapped up and barfined 30 seconds after taking the stage. But Toni Basil was crowing about Micky so I was in 80s nostalgic heaven.
An American in a baseball cap and backpack sat down and talked in fluent Thai with the barmaid who said he’d just missed happy hour, after which he got up and walked out. Who shows up broke to the redlight? As Aha-ha assured me I’m slowly learning that life is OK, I finished my drink and bailed.
I popped in to Rainbow to say hi to Bee and a statuesque blonde shouted my name with a curtsey and a wai. It took a moment to recall where we know each other from. It was Nadine. Back before the scamdemic, for about a yearlong stretch, I started my mongering 7 nights a week at The Strip, and I bought Nadine—and 10 other girls—dinner every night. Since then, she’s had fake tits bolted on, got a thigh tattoo, and noticeably improved her physique, I assume from dancing. Just as I ordered her a drink, Bee appeared and the two of them took over my personal space. She was a chatterbox, mostly musing about the good old days at The Strip. I told her I was moving to Ptown and that set her off. She couldn’t understand why I’d want to do that but once I made my case, she admitted it all sounded sound. The two of them yammered something about me in Thai, and then Bee turned and said, “Seven we agree, though we’ve known you for more than 10 years, you always look the same.” I guess that’s a compliment. I thought about asking why she didn’t notice that I’d dropped 20 lbs but then thought better of it.
And with that, I’d had my fill of Cowboy, and motaxi’d t’Pong where a K1 girl shouted, “Seven you cut your hair!” I don’t give these gals enough credit for their powers of observation. The joint was 90% full and I spied three new hotskinnies that would’ve positively buttered my roll if I had the time and the means. It was “old white man barfine” night on Thursday. I’ve never seen so many crusty old Americans leaving the gogo with young hot sex machines. The low season has truly become lo-so season, where the broke sex tourist can shine. And more power to ‘em, I guess, now that I’m not competing for gash. I say good for them. God knows ain’t no clam back in their home country who’d give them the time of day. Why not get what there is to get while you can? Soon enough, we’ll all be worm food.
The inside of VirginX has already been torn out, which seems like a waste. Pretty sure it’s going to be reborn as a gay or ladyboy gogo. They should’ve kept the decor. One of the Virgin dancers, whom I’d flirted with from opening day because of her trim, lithe, supermodel frame, has begun to eat herself out of the hot zone. She’s not there yet, but short of a drastic life change, she’s on a KFC-paved road to mediocrity. Speaking of, I’ve realized that most of Virgin’s top girls have been MIA for a long time, and only a handful of the great stalwarts remain. They have a formidable crew of semi-newbies but they’re nothing compared to the original cream of their crop.
On Friday i had my number 3 conc over for a final time. She looked at the shipping boxes stacked near the TV and said “what’s going on?” “I’m moving to Pattaya. I told you like a hundred times.” “I don’t remember you say.” Jesus, what powers these girls’ brains? Ketamine and sticky rice, I suppose.
Pim sat with me in K1, swearing she’ll miss me but i have my doubts. In K Corner a mob of nipons smoked weed and snapped photos as the amasans tried in vain to stop them. Silom’s streets and the night market teemed with ugly middle-aged Americlams dressed up in cocktail dresses like an episode of sex and the city. It was in two words sad and delusional. White girls should not come to Thailand, or at least, should avoid the redlight areas. There’s nothing there but the promise of a mental breakdown at the knowledge that they are, in fact, useless wastes of oxygen.
It was sixpack abs night in Virgin where not a single familiar adorned the stage in rota 1.
For some reason my olfactory nerves were on point that night because I could smell everyone’s halitosis, from Pim to the Virgin barmaids. And I suppose it was a fitting way to round out my stay in Bangkok—with a bad taste in my mouth from the redlight stank.
As I made my way home, the barker outside Radio City again pulled me inside. “Your French bosses don’t like me,” I told him. “But you’re my friend and I like you,” he replied. Then the frog walked in, so the Thai guy sat with me and made conversation until he wandered back to Bada Bing. Not that I fear the frogs. They’re not the violent type, though the dude in question did break the nose of a dancer at The Strip. I’m not an advocate for hitting women, unless they deserve it. Word was she asked for it, but knowing what I know about gogo dancers, I find that hard to believe. Anyway, I’m just irritated by his presence, and I hate spending baht in their bars. They don’t deserve my money. But as it was probably my last night in the Pong for a long while, I obliged my Thai friend. It was my good deed for the night. And that was how I closed out 12 years in Patpong.
In other news, last week I posted a video to X that Tong sent me. She’s a former dancer at XXX Lounge and since its closure has gone back to school and given up the life. When she was on the pole, her body was nothing short of incredible, and her face—though not classically beautiful—was cute enough. I’dve rated it a 7 back then. Since that time, though, she did what so many ignorant gogo dancers do, which was to deface her face with unnecessary and uglifying plastic surgery. She got a chin implant, a nose job, and lip fillers, all of which took her from a cute 7 to a gross 5. A follower of mine and fellow monger commented that the “hotties” I speak of are not in fact hot, citing Tong’s video as proof. I think he conflated the girls I talk about in these posts, eg King’s Group dancers, with galpals of mine who send me their photos and videos. They’re not the same demographic, but I understand his confusion. Tong’s my buddy. At one time, she was desirable. That’s all. I don’t post photos of current hotties because I’ve stopped snapping pics in the bars. Those days are over, and all I have to show for it is an archive, which you will be able to see in the Members Only section of my page once I rectify the paywall situation. Fair warning: when I pointed my lens at a crowd of dancers, not all of them were hot. Chubsters and goblins tended to dance right alongside the hot ones, as if they didn’t even realize they were not on the same level. If I ever own a gogo, I’ll make all the ugly girls wear bags over their heads, but until then, we will have to endure seeing them if we want to see the good-looking ones. That said, I’ve always maintained that I personally don’t care about a Thai chick’s face, as long as her body is bangin’. I’m not here to fall in lovae. I’m here for the clunge, the whole clunge, and nothing but the clunge.
There’s no Members Only Gallery this week, because as I posted previously, Stripe—the paywall gateway—has closed my account, calling my content “sexual.” So I can’t in good conscience add any new Members, and current Members have lost access as of the 29th. You have an Aussie named Greg Hawk to thank, because when he signed up and then decided he didn’t want to be a Member anymore, instead of canceling his membership he disputed the charge with his bank, causing a chain reaction that led to my account getting shut down. Greg Hawk, the cunt piece of shit, has done this to all of us, Members. I’m working on finding a new paywall gateway, so hopefully the MO content will continue, though those who already purchased a Membership will lose that $12. Thank Greg Hawk the retard for that kick in the balls.
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 and the redlight scene 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 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: The best days and nights of your life are happening right now. It’ll never get better than this. You’re only getting older, weaker, and closer to death. So make the most of what you can, while you can. Because by the time you realize the ride is over, it’ll be too late.
