What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession.
Ptown is hard on a monger. There’s simply too much to do and see—and drink. My “blogs” are turning into blurry recollections based on wild entries in my phone’s notepad. It’s getting harder to tell the days apart, and so what follows is a loose attempt at a linear series of events, plus a slew of random thoughts that got plonked down whilst immersed in the risqué reverie of the moment. I apologize for its disjointedness.
On the baht bus Monday night, traffic stopped us next to a tattooed Thai chick physically and verbally abusing her Middle-Eastern boyfriend. Punching and shouting. And while I’ll always side with a Thai in any argument with a foreigner, speaking as a man, if I was him Id’ve hopped a motaxi, gone straight home, packed, and disappeared before she got there, never to see me or hear from me again in this life. Maybe in the next one, baby. No woman should ever treat her man that way. If he’s a douche, leave him. But don’t stay and throw punches. That’s dirtbag behavior.
Lots of budget tourist couples (budgouples for short) in Ptown at the mo. I don’t mind them. They’re trying to live their best lives while a Western, bankster-controlled machine bleeds them dry back home. These are their last few days of happiness before the whole world goes tits-up.
One of my BJ concs got a job on Soi 6 so I went down to see her, but before I could find the bar, a smoking hot piece grabbed my arm and said, “Seven, you forgot me!” Well ladies and gents, I sure as shit did, because we met whilst I was in a drunken fever dream. Otherwise Id’ve remembered how ridiculously pornographically gorgeous she was. She pulled me inside and then I remembered why I’d passed on her. She lives upstairs, meaning I can’t just have her over whenever. As if she read my mind, she leaned in and said “I get three days off per month. I can come to your room on those days.” I nearly sprang wood. “When are you off?” I asked. “Tomorrow, ” she replied. “What’s your address?” I gave it, disbelieving life could be this easy. I’d have to bump my current BJ appointment but I didn’t care. She was the lynch pin I’d been looking for to round out the harem. Having two or three or four 8s is fine, as long as you can cap-off with a 9 or 10. I put her at 9.5, only for having no tits—a thing I care very little about.
Then I slipped into Toscana, mainly to smoke a cigar and sip port, but then I saw lobster linguine on the menu, and we’re all going to die soon, so…it was scrumptious, and perfectly paired with the house chard. Only then did I order the port and busted out a Drew Estate Papas Fritas. It’s in those moments, post-reel-in of a new concubine, belly full of lobster, tobacco causing the muscles in my back to relax, the sea to my left, and then the port hits that I remember why I’m here. It’s a near-perfect life.
Sitting alongside the Reach road can be a pain, if say, a homeless farang sidles up and asks for a handout. I want to break his arms. On that night, two little Thai girls came selling Mentos for 10b a bag. I bought two. Half an hour later they tried again. I said, “I already bought some!” One girl said, “Oh really? I don’t remember.” I bought two more just for her moxie. 10 minutes later they returned. One said, “We only have one more bag to sell and then we can go home.” So I handed them a hundy and they ran off cheering. I don’t think there’s anything more pure and good than when a Thai child is happy. I don’t want to think about what she’ll do when she turns 18. Hit up The 6, most likely, but I’ll be long dead by then.
So I didn’t mention it last week, but I made a foolish blunder on the Beach Road. Now that I’ve started to walk from The 6 to WS almost every night, I’ve gotten a good look at the freelancers. 9 of 10 are superfat, as though someone stuck a bike pump in their ass and filled ’em like balloons at a Macy’s parade. Of the other 1 in 10, half are LBs. So out of a misguided sense of appreciation for the few cute skinnies out there working, I started handing out hundies. You know, so they’d have dinner money. It took just a few days for word to get round, and now when I walk the beach, a dozen or so jump out at me from the shadows like banshees in a haunted house, hands held upright, waiting for cash.
As you near the beer garden you have to divert away from the beach to avoid the blafricancers (blafrican freelancers). I passed several Indians talking to freelancers on the Beach Road. The conversations went like this: “How much for one hour?” She says the price. “How much for me and my friend?” Double price. “How much if I keep my shoes on?” Same price. “How much if I only last 20 seconds?” Same price. “How much if I buy you a Gatorade after?” Same price. “How much if I don’t finish?” Same. “How much for just a handjob?” Same. “How much for just kissing?” Same. You want to go? “No, I just asking.”
On Tuesday I had over the Soi 6 girl that’d made me so excited a day earlier. The result was…anticlimactic. Or I should say, sour-climactic. She did just fine, but I’d built it up to be something on the level of my former best BKK concs and well, she didn’t measure up. I thought I’d negotiated to fuck her ass. “Can boom boom doot?” I asked on the night we met. She’d nodded. “Sure?” I asked. She nodded again. I said “boom boom your hoy, 2,000. Boom boom doot, 3,000…OK?” She nodded. So imagine my surprise when, upon undressing and laying on my bed, she seemed totally flabbergasted at my attempt to stick it in her ass. I said, “But you’re said boom boom doot.” She said, “No, I said you can joob.” I mean what in the fuckity fuck. How do you confuse “doot’ with “joob”? And so I fucked her cooter, with more than a little disappointment. When it was over, she seemed embarrassed. “You can give 2,000,” she told me. I said, “No, I promised you 3,000 so you’re taking 3,000.” Minutes later she was on a motaxi and I was mentally crossing her off my harem list. And so the search for satellite concs continues. It won’t take long, because in Ptown, there’s a 100% chance of meeting clunge every night. 50-50 if you’re a picky fucker like me. The 10-day contract turnover means lots of stickarounds plus new blood all the time…
You can always tell a Ptown first-timer tourists. They have a permanent look of surprise, bemusement, and joy on their faces. Also, they take photos of mundane things like Soi Diamond as if they’ve discovered the origin of the Nile. I can’t blame them. I did the same thing 15 years ago…
On my Bangkok nights out, I’d typically hit five gogos per night—six if I was feeling crazy. In Ptown, those are amateur numbers. Every night since moving here, I’ve probably hit on average eight bars per night plus a nightcap at home. Granted, there’s always a walk or baht bus trip to divide the drinking, but still. It’s a whole different level of revel here. It ain’t for the squeamish or weak (squeak for short, copyright BKK7)…
When a Ptown girl messages to fuck, she’s not scheduling an appointment for later. She means now. She’s literally sitting on the back of a motaxi when she sends the text. My BK harem were much more accommodating. “Seven, can we meet Tuesday?” No, I’m busy Tuesday. Can it be Friday? “OK.” Not so with the Pattaya set. They’re raring to go. They’re the Domino’s Pizza of sex. They want you inside them in thirty minutes or less. Meanwhile I’m still languishing in bed, sweating and hung over, rolling in potato crisp crumbs from the night before, Jelly Bellies stuck to my back. For any UK readers, those aren’t the same as Jelly Babies. They’re tiny delicious jellybeans that’re super popular in the US and, strangely enough, made here in TLOS…
One night I passed a snack shop in Tree Town and saw a LB in a miniskirt bending over to dig coins out of her purse. It wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever seen. That was a 6-year-old getting hit by a car when I was at uni. But it was damn close…
The beer bars along Buakhao, especially the dead ones, remind me of living in Phuket. My apartment was in a sleepy fishing village north of Patong called Bangtao, and they had a little stretch of bars where old, decrepit locals would go and drink every day at all hours. The difference between there and Buakhao is, in Phuket the bars all had a trio or quartet of young sexbombs to keep you company. Here, it’s just old dudes drinking Chang, staring out at the soi, waiting to die. I think I opined about this in a long-ago blog, but looking at all the geriatric old farts in this town hobbling around with a foot already in the grave, I wonder how crowded the morgues are. I mean, I bet at least two old coots die per day in this city. I have a mental image of wrinkled corpses stacked to the ceiling in hospital basements…
I passed a beer bar in the busy section of Buakhao and let a little brown cutie drag me inside. I quickly discerned she was very drunk. And handsy. I drank fast, paid faster, and barely escaped with my dignity.
On Thursday it rained all afternoon. When it finally let up, newconc number 1 came over and we rocked the bed for eight minutes. Then I had to get out, because Thursday is the quietest redlight night of the week, and with the storm for good measure, I knew not a lot of people would be about. I popped over to the Beach Road to give a hundy to my fave freelancer. An Indian dude stopped me along the way and tried to sell me a homemade recipe for shrinking my belly. If he thought it’s big now, he should’ve seen me before I started walking an hour a day.
I found the girl, got her Line, though I think it was fake because she pulled out a 2nd phone, and then headed up to Tree Town to look for the Thai guy who used to work at Virgin in Patpong. It was his night off, so I sped to Las Vegas for gogo b ruskies. I was there mostly for the air-con. My number 2 newconc messaged. She wanted to come over. Her 10 day contract was up, and she wanted some quick cash. But she just blew me the day before. I’d already told her I only wanted to see her once a week. But those baht signs in her eyes must’ve blinded her, or in this case gave her amnesia. I couldn’t possibly see her two days in a row. Her BJ just isn’t that good.
In Lady Love I was scoping out a topless hottie (toptottie for short) to drop a hundy on when the guy next to me decided to strike up a conversation. His name was Marc, from Stuttgart. His father died in Thailand last year after a glorious 18-year Thailand run. I told Marc I would die here as well, though hopefully not soon, and hopefully in a gogo bar, with a drink in one hand and some gal’s tit in the other. He tried to talk on, but his buddy paid the checkbin and wanted to leave, so I was saved from an inane conversation.
Walking up Buakhao I got grabbed by yet another girl who used to work in Patpong. She pulled me into her bar and I bought her a drink. She went on about how working in Ptown is totally different from BK. She said what I’ve always thought, that Bangkok girls are on the whole prettier than Pattaya girls. She also said there’s a shit ton of ladyboy crime on Walking Street…pickpockets and whatnot. I don’t want to jinx myself but no LB has ever got close enough to get in my pockets. Maybe they target the vulnerable.
Later on, I was drinking with a buddy of mine who is a bar manager. He mentioned that he needs surgery. Normally, for a bar boss, that’d be a real problem. They often don’t have great insurance—or any. But get this: the guys who own his bar (among others) got together and came up with the cash for his surgery. Holy shitballs, friends. It’s stories like that that renew one’s faith in humanity, even the diabolical redlight jesters of Ptown.
On my way home, I caught the baht bus down Buakhao. A nipon was snacking on a bag of McDonald’s fries. I debated whether to kill him and take his food, and decided against it. This city definitely conjurs up some of the dark undertones in my soul. Phuket did the same. BK not so much.
Back on the Beach Road on Friday, I saw a dude who looked like he’d come straight from Texas or Oklahoma. He sported jeans, cowboy boots, and a heavy shirt that he’d soaked through with sweat. I got the feeling he was shopping for a freelancer, but it’s hard to catch a filly when you look like you might die of heat stroke at any second. Speaking of freelancers, I gave a hundy to one loner cutie. And I need to explain how I do it so the following makes sense. When I give a gogo dancer or beer bar girl or freelancer cash, I take out the bill and lightly touch it to the top of her forehead, then tap a shoulder, then the head again, then the other shoulder, then back to the head. It’s a kind of good-luck ritual, and the girl typically wais through the whole thing, eyes closed, whispering what I assume is a prayer. Well, when I did it this time, I turned to see an old American fucker staring at me. As I passed him, he flagged me down. I took out one earbud. “Where are you from?” he asked. United States. I don’t know why I told him the truth, or replied in the first place. He said, “You should never do that…touch a Thai on the head.” I thought about explaining that I didn’t touch her head, only the money touched her head, and it’s a common thing in TLOS, but instead I said, “Buddy, I’ve lived here for 15 years. I know that I’m doing.” He tried to argue “That’s-that’s considered very, it’s very…”, but I replaced my earbud and turned my back on him. A few minutes later, the fucking Indian from the other day who called me fat tried to stop me walking with a “Hey, hey, hey!” I just shook my head and walked on. Man, if this trend continues of random yahoos yapping at me while I try to live a life of zero conversations with anyone other than Thai whores, I might have to move to Koh Kood. Fuck these goddam chatty cunts. I never knew it, but apparently I have a face that says “All dumb assholes, please rock up and start talking to me. I can’t wait to hear the retarded shit you’ve got on your tiny peanut of a brain.” It’s a brand-new affliction. What can a monger do to ensure the stupid masses leave him the hell alone?
I woke up sore on Friday and couldn’t figure out why. Then I remembered the high-octane sex with newconc 1 the previous night. I mentioned before that she’s 33, goes to the gym four times a week, and is formidably athletic in bed. I feel a pressure to keep up with her, and even show her a move or two, and shit my britches if I didn’t pull a muscle or three. She’s very appreciative. She cums easily, with these cute little minigasms and afterward always says, “Good, very good.” I guess that’s the highest praise I can hope for in the twilight of my sexual prowess.
In Pin-Up, I hundied a gorgeous young thing with zero surgical enhancements. In the Ptown redlight, that’s like seeing a unicorn. In Atmos I got in a conversation in the toilets with a skinny dancer about what she’d order if I gave her money…kow pad? Krapow moo sap? “Khao kha moo” she said, so I hundied her as well.
Somehow I always end up in Fahrenheit for their nightly good-luck ritual. This is a five-minute routine where a girl walks in circles around the stage with a glass of whiskey, dabbing the dancers’ hands as she passes while everyone rings the bells that can be found at every seat. I dutifully ring my bell along with the girls. I’m the only customer who does it. The mamasan walks round, touching the girls on the head with the night’s written roster. The girls rub booze on their buttons—the ones with numbers on them so a punter knows who he’s ordering. “I’ll have number 806.”
Chick A-Gogo has exploded with hotties. It’s ridiculous. It’s 2010s levels of excellent clunge. They charged me 260 for a b ruskie and it was worth it for the amazing view. CoCo charges 240 for the same drink and a far less fetching roster. A very cute but very chubby gal with saggy tits chose me from the stage. She played flirtatious for a good 10 minutes. I tried to pass her off to the skinny Slavic dude behind me but neither of them wanted that. Then a beefy Russian blonde (yes they have farang chicks working there) took an interest, and it was all I could do to belt my drink and escape before one or more of those undesirables made a play. After CoCo I had one in Windmill 2 and after that a big Tiger in Sapphire, reading half a dozen palms before the glass was empty. I don’t think I was trying to die from alcohol poisoning but some part of me wondered how close to the coffin I could dance and still walk back.
Saturday was a stinker. I walked The 6, ran into several whom I auditioned for and cut from the harem. I spied one gal who I’ve been stalking via the bar’s Facebook page for weeks. She’s a stunner, and I never saw her on site before, and just assumed she’d been barfined early every night. So I approached her and asked to buy her a drink. She said “No.” I asked why. She said she’s afraid of farang. I told her in Thai that I’m harmless, but it didn’t change her mind, so I hundied her up and bailed. Some time later I saw her sitting with an old nipon. I guess you gotta take the losses with the wins.
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 August. 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: If you ever find yourself in a situation where you’ve booked two concubines for the same day, and you don’t know which one to cancel, wait. There’s a 65% chance one of them will flake, so wait till the first one arrives before messaging the other one to reschedule. Or drop a second kamag and try to root them both. Actually there’s a 40% both of them will flake. So I guess you’re fucked (or in this case, not fucked) no matter what you do.
