What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. I often wondered what I’d do if I was ever stranded alone on a deserted Island. I’d probably go into survival mode, using my energy for collecting water and foraging for food, and that’s pretty much it. The rest of the time, I think I’d lounge under a tree and do…nothing. Settling into this life in Pattaya is not dissimilar. I leave my apartment for morning walks, to drop off or pick up laundry, find new restaurants, and drink in the redlight areas. And that’s it. The rest of the hours are filled by watching movies while in a reclined position, and having a conc over once in a while. Time seems to stand still. My to-do list of various responsibilities goes unattended. I’m not really posting to social media much anymore, and couldn’t care less. In fact, it’s hard to muster up the gumption to put out these posts. I am a societal castaway in the most titillating adult playground on Earth.
I suppose it’s because just living the Ptown life is difficult enough. It’s hard to have afternoon delight, then lay around waiting for sunset, then hit up a new restaurant to peruse their wine list, then head to either Soi 6 or WS or LK to flirt with innumerable chicks, collating them into lists of possible concs, then stumbling home to pass out. It’s a challenge, this monger’s malaise.
Back in the 20teens, if I decided to spend a night sitting on my couch in Silom, a David Bowie song would pop into my head: “I know when to go out, I know when to stay in,” and in those days, I never stayed in. Today, a different song plays in my amigdyla. It’s by Morrissey and it goes, “So, the choice I have made may seem wrong to you…but who asked you anyway? It’s my life to ruin my own way.” And to some, it may look like a ruined life. I’ve given up on purpose. I live only for pleasure now.
Early in the week, I napped until 19.00 so either had to drop a CBD gummy and go back to bed, or head out to tip a few. Opting for the latter, I walked Soi 22 to LK, stopping first at Dirty Ranch for their spareribs special 299b and a glass of red for 159. I’m starting to think that, apart from Italian and French places (and hiso places) every eatery serves the same house wine. I don’t know the name but it’s a thin Australian. Maybe a young cab. It’s not terrible.
Twas a 28-minute wait for the meal, which nearly drove me nuts. There were only my two other tables of customers and they didn’t have their food either, and they were here before me. I bet there was only one Thai dude in the kitchen preparing one person’s food at a time. But when the plate arrived…Holy Moses, what a giant rack of deliciousness. Plus a side of mash and, for some reason, a dipping sauce (I got mushroom). The ribs needed no extra sauce. I inhaled it. 458 all-in and I’ll definitely go back.
After a vodka soda in Lady Love, in wandered up the soi and ran into an old galpal from the pre-Covid days who was standing outside Oasis Lounge. Now, for those who don’t know, this is a high end cocktail lounge in the middle of LK. That’s LK, the poor-as-dirt pensioners’ hangout, chock full of lo-so beer bars. And then there’s Oasis—a shining beacon of high class among the muck. The drink prices are steep, and deservedly so. The mixologists in there are alcohol magicians. And when you sit down to enjoy your beverage, you can have yourself a sexy Thai companion. The ladydrink prices are the same as the gogo, so only in Oasis are the customer cocktails more expensive than the lass’s and worth every satang. I got an old fashioned and it nearly blew my doors off. The place reminded me of a brief wonderful time when Andy, the owner of Electric Blue in Patpong, closed his gogo and refurbished it into a steakhouse. It served the same purpose as Oasis—creating a bastion of high quality among the dross of the beer bar setting. And now, I’d found that oasis of the cut-above once again. The joint is aptly named.
In Las Vegas, a bearded American got a girl down from the stage to buy her a drink and ply her with kisses and gentle tit molestation. I love seeing Western dudes break the misandry matrix. Does the pendulum swing too far? Yes. Do they end up falling for the Thai bar girl or gogo dancer? Sure, often. But we all did at the start. He’s taken the first steps toward mongerhood. And good on him. I wish him luck. May his bed ever be occupied, and may his sack get regularly drained. May we all be so lucky. This is how the world should work.
One evening, after surveying two dozen eateries on Google, I set out for charcuterie and wine, but ended up at Romsai on the Beach Road, forgetting they don’t serve wine by the glass. When I moaned to the waitress, she kindly steered me to that section of the menu, so the meal was partially saved. I say partially because I ordered the meat and cheese plate but they were out of charcut, except for a morsel of salami. Not wanting to be a dick, I stayed, and ordered two glasses—cab and chard. After burning through both of those, I had a glass of rose as well, for good measure. The wines were all Thailand-caliber good, meaning a wine snob like me could never afford the 85% markup of good imported wine. So the ones here must be graded on a curve. 1240 all-in for the charcut, cheese, salami, and 3 glasses of vino. The view was, of course, spectacular.
Walking back along the drag, I again ran into the former Patpong barmaid from the previous week. She works in the beer bar complex next to the police station. I said i was on my way to dinner and would swing by later. A lie, of course. Instead, I wandered southward and stopped in at Tahitian Queen. ‘Twas only my 2nd ever visit. The first was in 2014. I got chosen by two gals—a chubster and a 45-year-old. Thankfully they were very polite, otherwise itd’ve been a nightmare. They were asking for shorttime sex within 10 seconds of sitting down. I drank as quickly as I could and got the hell out. Not that the TQ is a bad joint. The vibe in there is awesome and there are some cute chicks in the mix. I just drew the short straw that time.
As I strolled along the Beach Road, a crusty old freelancer passed me by, then immediately tried to grab the hand of a geriatric farang a few steps ahead. I took it as a compliment, like she knew I was too young and fit for her. Then again, she also passed up tow fat blafricans, so who knows what she thought of me. I’d nearly reached the Beer Garden when Lookked messaged to ask if I’d come fuck her on The 6 so she’d have travel money to visit her mum. I had no interest in a shorttime 2nd floor shag then, but as the pussy loan shark of Bangkok, it felt normal to float her the cash as payment for a future BJ so that’s what I did.
Then I baht-bussed straight back to WS and hit Chick and Atmos. Both were teeming with hot clunge. And then for no reason I can think of, I let myself get sucked into one of the Russian gogos (name redacted). It was fucking awful. And I’ve been to several. Most are OK. Some are really good. This one was a shit show. They had a mix of Russian and “Latin” ladies. I saw nothing resembling a Latin chick, but the fattest, ugliest blafraclam took the stage just as I sat down. I couldn’t pay fast enough for my 350b Tiger and get the hell out of there without taking a sip. The bill took forever. Before it came some farang chubster sat down and said—and I’m quoting—”How you? Back room.” I didn’t even acknowledge her. It’s interesting that the scammiest scams in TLOS are run by foreigners.
WS was an absolute clusterfuck of people. From outside the gogo bar, at least, there’s no such thing as low season here.
One afternoon I had to schlep out to The 6 at 16.00 for a fuck appointment because that’s part of my life now. When I first met her, I made the blunder of not asking her fee. It turned out it was one of those where the mamasan calculates the whole package….and these skanks had the nerve to say 3,950 all-in. I nearly fell off my chair. Never in any multiverse should a Soi 6 bar have the audacity to quote that price with a straight face. I told her I’d never pay that much, and she said, “Yes, every customer says the same thing. It’s too much.” And so I found myself out, showered, balls shaved, kamag’d up with nowhere to go. Since my previous night’s attempt at charcuterie failed, I wound up at The Market bistro for double fisted wine (prosecco and Bordeaux) and a 650b plate of meat and cheese. That’s cheaper than Romsai, but for fewer cheeses and a not-as-good view. The wine was better, though. No blue cheese, which was a downer, but there was honey, so that’s a plus. 1270 all-in, and that’s with VAT and 100b service charge. Which was the better deal? It’s hard to say.
It’s ironic that a bloke who fancies himself a foodie, and absolutely hates Indian food, moved to a town with more Indian restaurants than the country of India. Speaking of India, it’s always funny to see two of them crowd onto the back of one motaxi, because why pay 80 baht when you can pay 40 for the most uncomfortable ride of your life?
Midweek I woke up with a mild case of gout—an old affliction that hadn’t reared its head in years. In thinking how and why it happened, I realized I’d had wine the past 3 nights, plus charcuterie twice, plus bbq ribs. I attribute it to the consumption of sumptuous meals. Either that, or a week straight of drinking white Russians. So that evening, I went out for pizza and more wine, because in the war between a man and his failing body, he cannot allow his frailties to win. ‘Twas at La Plage on the Beach Road. A concert stage had been erected across the street and the crew did a sound check for the duration of my meal, counting to 10 multiple times in between playing One Direction at full volume.
At the table next to mine, two Indian dudes sat nursing Changs. They called the waitress over and proceeded to ask dozens of questions about the menu, eg “Can I order one sandwich and share with my friend?” The server’s reply was always the same: “Yes. You want?” And their response was always, “No, I just asking.”
On the opposite side, a stupid American (beard, backwards baseball cap) had ordered pineapple fried rice and—I assume accidentally—two whole grilled chickens. He looked around nervously as if to check whether anyone noticed the ridiculous amount of food crowded onto the tiny table before him. I considered waiting around to see how much he could put away, and even ordered a mai tai after the pizza was gone. In case you’re interested, a 295b mai tai at La Plage is no better than the 170b one at The Beer Garden. Oh, and the cunt American finished the rice and one half of one of the chickens.
Ptown gogos and beer bars have begun an interesting hiring practice, I assume to deal with the fickle nature of the dancers, and that is, they hire a gal for just 10 days at a time at a set salary—12k in LK, 29 in the good WS bars—after which the filly can re-up, or go see her kid in Isaan, or fuck off to a different bar. So plentiful is the wellspring of hot clunge in sin city.
So WS is my replacement for Patpong, despite the low percentage of finding concubines there. It turns out, if you sit in one place on the soi for long enough, you can see the entire IQ bell curve represented in the crowd. I’m not referring to Thais. They’re exempt. Same with Chinese and Indians. It’s not fair to assess them on the same scale. I’m talking about the unwashed euromasses and canadamericans. More accurately, you can see the lower slope of the curve on full display. Watching brainless GenZers pick up on each other is like an episode of Animal Planet. They stop just short of spraying pheromones in each other’s faces like cats. I hit XS, then Fahrenheit, then Coco, and then the gout started to ache again so I bailed. As I walked Soi Diamond to the 2nd Road, I ran smack into a fight between two Indians, and by that I mean, two Indians plus 30 other Indians trying to either break it up or egg it on. It was like watching baboons throw feces at each other.
Whenever I go to The 6, I can’t seem to take my time. I feel like an asshole if I pursue the goods like the girls are meat in a butcher shop, so instead I shoot myself in the foot. If a gal looks good at first glance, I buy her a drink, then usually find on closer inspection that she’s got a face like a dog’s dinner. This happened three times in a row one night. I did manage to find one who—despite stretch marks and no tits—might work as another BJ conc. And that’s all I really want these days. Gone are my epic nights of sexual prowess. I might get in one good romp per month, but this old dog’s content to slow down and let the lass do the bulk of the work.
There are so many goddam Korean live streamers on The 6 now, it’s ridiculous. They practically bump into each other, such is the foot traffic of their dumb asses. It’s called market saturation, idiots. Find something else to point your camera at.
My WS routine has been more or less solidified. I hit Pin-Up and Chick once a week. It would be more, except why? They won’t let the girls give out their Lines, so there’s no point in going. Someone should relay this message to the owners. They’re missing out on a guaranteed passive income from locals who’d visit regularly to buy drinks for the girls in their stable. But that can’t happen until they get rid of that stupid rule. The only gogo I visit more than once a week is Atmos, because there’s a bunch of fun-loving staff in there who know me already. So one night, I popped in there and afterward hit a couple other gogos that aren’t worth mentioning. Then I sat for two Dudes (white russians) on the corner of Soi Diamond and just watched the mutants pass by.
On Thursday I did my walk late so I could pick up a set of new contact lenses. Ptown at 9 am is wildly different from Ptown at 7 am. All massage joints are open and shouting at passersby. All coffee shops and breakkie joints have solo dudes sipping java, facing the soi, staring with contemplation or consternation. I spotted my first homeless farang. He was barefoot, with long gray hair twisted up in a sloppy manbun. He sat outside a 7-11, nibbling what looked like a donut. As the knick-knack shops opened, the newly-arrived tourists took to the street, wide awake and looking for fun. Too early, dipshits. Go back to bed.
After convincing myself WS is my new Patpong, I spent more time on LK last week, mainly because of Oasis. A galpal works there, so I went in to see her a lot. They let me smoke a Cuban on the terrace, serving me super strong (albeit expensive) cocktails. My gal made sure to drink at the same speed as me, finishing up when I did. That’s a good redlight friend. She wasn’t interested in pumping me for drinks. I had a whiskey sour and followed it with a Boulevardier. They were strong enough to last an hour between them, long enough to finish the stogie. My partner sat with me the whole time, making conversation as we people-watched and just….existed. I could do that every night for the rest of my life and be happy.
On my way home I stopped in to (name redacted) gentleman’s club to chat with a local buddy. I lamented that I have to walk everywhere just to stay slim enough to fit in my shorts. He told me he’d been on the carnivore diet for years and it worked great for him, and I should try it. All I needed was an air fryer and a microwave. He drastically overestimates my ability to do anything. Air fryer? I can barely work up the effort to tap the photo of a burrito on the Grab app.
On Friday, the pensioners who’ve pinched their pension pennies all week venture out to the Buakhao bars to splash out. I had to walk all the way to Myth Night to find a bar with a decent-looking lass and no bald-headed crowds. She was a lovely 20 yo from Kalasin who’d been in town for four months—long enough to corrupt her completely. Still, I gave her my Line and told her to come over whenever she needed cash. Then as I went to type something into Line, photos popped up of one of my BK harem with my cock in her mouth. She saw them and burst out laughing. I awkwardly explained she was a former concubine whom I’d left behind to move here, and assured her I no longer shove my wang in her gob. She seemed unfazed.
Later I doubled back to LK and swung into Las Vegas, mainly for their aircon. I received no small amount of attention from a handful of gross women. I think it’s an indicator that low season’s hitting hard. The chicas are out there trying.
Then I of course went to Oasis to hang with the galpal. I stupidly ordered a Long Island, forgetting that I hadn’t yet tried their mai tai. So once I was properly plastered from the LI, I ordered the right drink. My companion just knocked back Sangsom and sodas. Two idiot Brits sat down next to us with what looked like a Thai tour guide. She was decked out in a bikini top, leather pants, and tattoos from neck to navel. They ordered cans of Sprite. Jesus Mary and Joseph. That’s like going to a winery and drinking tap water.
The mai tai at Oasis was yellow. This is something I’ve encountered before in Ptown but I don’t remember where. It still tastes like a Mai tai, but it sure ain’t what I’m used to. A proper one should be pink, bordering on orange, with a splash of dark rum like a layer of brown sugar at the bottom. Thai mai tais almost never come out this way. But I trust the mixologists at Oasis because their cocktails are top tier. And boy howdy did it ever fuck me right up. After the Long Island and two sips of mai tai, I was so hammered I could barely sit upright. And so I bid adieu to my companion and trudged back to my bed.
I’m a sucker for a sea breeze. It makes me think simultaneously of Malibu, San Francisco, Castelsardo, Bastimentos, Phuket, and Clacton. And now, Ptown. We’re coming into breezy season, and the nights are cooling nicely. There’s a hint of promise in the air, like destiny is about to deal an ace and a king. I’m just waiting for the cards.
On Saturday evening, the cool easy breezes of the previous days were gone daddy gone. I baht bussed to Central gor some 60b rad nah and then foolishly walked the Beach Road to WS in a sweltering, stifling humidity that felt like a curse from God. I was so miserable, I didn’t notice that id arrived a full hour before the gogos opened. So I hopped from 7-11 to 7-11 like islands of aircon in the oppressive heat, stopping briefly for a b ruskie across from Atmos. The soi was already lousy with tourists and holidaymakers, and I realized I hat Ptown on the weekends. The city simply exceeds its cunt capacity (cuntpacity for short). The only good think about being in the redlight too early is, you get to watch all the dancers come to work. It’s a parade of pulchritude. A lineup of lust. A train of trim. A duck row of camel toe. A convoy of clunge. An ant march of ass.
At 19.38, after the night’s steamy start, a wild breeze kicked up out of nowhere, likely a portent of coming rain…except no rain came. Just a cool, bordering on cold, breeze.
Among the throngs of lookieloos and Thai employees, a lone Thai woman ran down the soi with her jeans around her ankles. No one made a move to help her—not even the police or emergency services, whose job I assume it is.
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 beach 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: Some of the gals on Soi 6 play a weird game. If you’re walking past, looking forward or down or away from their bar, they’re often more brazen with their catcalling, but if you look a lass directly in the eyes, for some reason they clam up. I think it might be because they fear assertive customers. Do with that what you will.
