What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and at time of posting (Sunday morning) I’m on a bus to Bangkok to see a couple old concubines and visit my longtime stomping grounds. I’ll present a full report next Sunday. In the meantime, here are the notes I found in my phone at the end of the week…
Morning walks made for great therapy over the past few days. By pure coincidence, I passed through the Buakhao Market near the corner of Buakhao and South Pattaya Road and discovered a slew of stuff that I used to buy in the Silom Market back in BK. If you’re local and never checked it out, I recommend it. It ain’t fancy—it’s kind of run-down—but nowhere else in Ptown can you buy lychee juice, shoes, a puppy, jewelry, and fried chicken in one spot. The only problem is, the vendors aren’t too concerned about opening early or being punctual, so if you’re a morning walker like me, you have to wait and walk later, and that means bigger crowds on the Beach Road and hotter temps. Anyone who walks the beach from 7.30 to 8.30 can watch Ptown come to life. It goes from asleep to awake, from deserted to jammed. On Sunday there was a fun-run, with lots of youngsters and professional joggers on hand. By the time I walked past, the run was over. You gotta fun your run early in the a.m. in TLOS. Intermixed were the wake-and-bakes, already permeating the air with the stank of weed. It was hot and sunny early, so everyone took on the appearance of melting crayons.
Monday’s walk was fairly routine, right up until I reached the police station. I suddenly became aware of someone walking closely behind me. I sped up, and they sped up. I slowed down, and they slowed down. Then I stopped to give 20b to a homeless Thai and my follower was forced to pass me. It was a short, bald, beefy farang with hairy legs and very short shorts. I let him get a few meters ahead before resuming my walk. He periodically glanced back to gauge my distance, and every couple minutes, stopped and looked up at the sky. It forced me to pass him again, and he resumed following me at too-close a distance. It was then that I realized I’d been dragged into a game of gay cat-and-mouse. I crossed the street and walked on the beach side. For several minutes, this dude matched my pace, staying parallel to me. Finally I stopped and turned to look directly at him. He glanced, hesitated, walked on, stopped, looked at the sky, looked back at me, resumed walking, and kept doing that until he was a good 200 meters ahead. Then I hopped a baht bus going the opposite direction and ditched him. If I was a farang clam, I’dve recorded it all and posted it to TikTok with a rant about how all men are rapists. But since I’m not a farang clam, I’m content to winge about it to you for a minute and then move on with my life.
On Tuesday I had a pity-conc over. That’s when I’ve no interest in seeing a particular concubine, but she pleads, claiming she can’t pay rent, so I have to let her come over and suck me off. Freakin’ hell. I should get a medal for stuff like that. When you’re a monger with a heart of gold, stuff like that’s just baked into the cake. Before her visit, I worked in a morning walk. The first thing I saw when reaching the beach at 07.30 was two fat blafricans and what must’ve been their equally fat preteen daughter all twerking for the amusement of some Thai taxi drivers. Halfway between WS and Central, a gogo dancer still in her uniform from last night was freelancing her cooch on the beach. Too bad she was enormous. For some reason, all of Ptown was awake and bustling by 8 am. There were bloody tourists everywhere. And I suppose it’s the first indication that high season is here. It’s good for the local Thais. I, of course, hate it. Frigging Sinos sipping from coconuts, blocking the pavement…lone sex tourists saying “Good morning” to everyone…Indians shopping for street meat first thing. It’s a shit show.
In typical retarded fashion the Thai govt, after floating the idea of getting rid of the midday booze ban, did a 180 on Monday and started fining tourists for drinking in restaurants between 14.00 and 17.00. Every time they do something galactically stupid you think, well there’s no way they could do worse than that. But then they surprise you. I’d meant to head out at that time to see if the new law had put a damper on bars and restaurants but then forgot. I ended up on The 6 at 19.45. The traffic was pure hell—more proof that high season has hit. I found one of my possaconcs (possible future conc) and we had a drink. She was under the weather. “Covid,” I joked, but she nodded as if in agreement. Goddammit that’s the last thing I need. I cautiously withdrew my fingers from her crotch. From there I stopped in to two more bars to buy drinks for galpals. Then I passed a lass whom I’ve offered a spot in my harem. She wants nothing to do with me. I tipped her a hundy anyway, because in this place, you never know. One wild swing of misfortune and she might be champing at the bit for Seven’s attention.
It took 20 minutes on a baht bus to get from The 6 to WS. I made a beeline for Pin-Up knowing I’d only get two vodkas in before happy hour ended. There’s plenty to look at in there, but the gal I was gunning for has been MIA for nearly a month. It’s just as well. I’d never have paid the barfine anyway. An old geezer next to me had come in with a bag of candies and kept a small pile on the table like a birdwatcher lays out bird seed. Every time a lady would take a few, he’d replenish the pile from the bag. Motherfucker stole my move.
In Atmos, the skinny yet pushing-30 gal I always tip pulled me down to sit with her and two friends. I didn’t buy them drinks but I showered them with small bills and lollipops. There was an unfamiliar but well fit lass sat across from us who watched my every move like a hawk. She was incredible, so my only hope was that all my flirtations got her riled up with envy. I guzzled my cocktail and bailed before the chicks could start asking for drinks, and went straight to Chick to squeeze in one last 95b vodka. As I polished it off, the boss bought me another, so I stayed for the length of two drinks. Thank Buddha there was a bevy of beautiful butts to bask in. Of the 5 bars in the Pin-Up cartel—Pin-Up, Atmos, XS, Chick, and Dragon—my fave is Chick, just for the many magnificent minges in there. But Atmos is a close second. There are more hotties per capita in the King’s bars in Patpong, but that’s the only thing BK has going. Everything else there is shit. Cowboy is flagging. Nana is pure garbage. Patpong got ruined by the cops back in 2023 when they shut down all the best gogos. By the end of the 2nd vodka in Chick I was wrecked, and that’s when I realized I’d forgotten to eat.
I stumbled toward Burger King, dreaming of savory processed poison, but instead diverted to Jisoo where I was claimed by a chunkster like some kind of common tourist. I tried tipping her away, but she didn’t take the hint. I ordered a black russian and they brought over something that tasted like it was cut with Sprite and brake fluid. I like the girls in there so I drank it dutifully but afterward needed a real black ruskie, or a white ruskie if any WS outdoor bars had open seats. They didn’t, so I opted for Coco. Their b ruskie is top notch for 240b. It was all tits and tatts in there. I saw one gal I’d take home but she was so preoccupied with ordering moo taut I thought she’d never be able to focus on something as benign as my old-ass wang. The ruskie eased me into that realm in between sobriety and death, when the grim reaper might be a drinking buddy or a harbinger of the grave. The lynchpin holding me fast to life is the presence of female company. I don’t know how alcoholics face the cold inevitable without the warm comfort of lady vagine. It’s the balm for what ails. It’s the cushion for the fall. It’s the clunge that curtails the chaos.
Thursday it pissed down all day with crazy thunder and lightning, but Friday started with a glorious blue-sky morning complete with a soothing breeze. I got a late start, leaving my apartment at half 8 so Ptown had already sprung to life. By noon, the govt idiots who tried Monday to start fining tourists for drinking after 14.00 already reversed their stupid law, swinging the pendulum fully opposite. For the next six months, boozers can drink in the afternoons. They’re calling it a “pilot program.”
At 19.30 I showered and schlepped to Soi 6 to check on a galpal who was sick a few nights before. She calls herself Linda. 19 and smoking hot. I want to drill her but as she’s fond of telling me, she gets drilled every day. In my youth, that sort of thing wouldn’t have bothered me as long as I got my shot, but these days I’m looking for something different. Then as I passed a bar I’ve never actually been in, a lovely smile and sixpack abs caught my eye. I ended up sitting with Pang, 18 from Nakhon Sawan. She was as easily taken with my flirt strategy as every other Thai lass I’ve run across, though by the end of our conversation, I could tell I hadn’t impressed her enough to want a follow-up visit. Plus, she lived at the bar so there was no way to see her without taking her upstairs. That’s a deal-breaker. Then I slipped down to visit with Sun, the same lass from Tuesday who is happy to take my money but won’t conc up. She similarly finds me hilarious to talk to, but perhaps too old for her liking. Still, I’m not giving up just yet.
When I boarded the baht bus to WS there was only one other passenger—a young Thai gal. A minute late, six Indian dudes got on, and instead of spreading out and sitting like normal people, they crowded in close to the chick like iron flakes to a magnet. Oh, and they lit up cigarettes. If I ever become President I’m going to hire “politeness police” who’ll go around smacking people who act like dicks in public.
Speaking of, Walking Street was a frenzy of retarded activity. By that I mean, the stupid masses were out en masse. Every step felt like being sucked into an IQ black hole. Being in a crowd of stupid can be paradoxically comforting at times, like visiting a kindergarten. But in Ptown, the dumbness is always sprinkled with a sense of violence. Like a dog in a yard that looks friendly but there’s a sign that says “danger: it bites.”
Pin-up’s rotas were splendid per usual. Atmos’ stage was strangely sparse. I got the idea they took some away on one of the VIP boat trips they do here. There were exactly half as many chicks as normal. A trio of regulars who’re used to good-luck tips gently harassed me for cash. It’s a chore I welcome after a lifetime of being rinsed for thousands by Los Angeles whores.
The girls in Chick were a sight to behold. Lord how I wish these were Bangkok gogos, where a man can get a Line ID. As it is, all that flesh is just eye candy. It’s one corner of an isosceles triangle of unfuckability in the Ptown redlight scene. Angle 1 is no Lines from gogo dancers. Angle 2 is available Soi 6 hotties who get fucked by strangers daily. Angle 3 is settling for chicks who used to be Bangkokians, then relocated to Ptown. The result is a Bermuda Triangle of minge. Thank fuck I can head to Silom every so often to bed my old harem.
Here’s something super weird. A thing I always do in a gogo is dance in my seat, due to the fact that all my life I’ve never been able to sit still when I hear a beat. That’s not the weird part. Here’s the weird part: noob tourists often watch me when I sit-down dance and then copy me. It’s as though my careless abandon gives them permission to go from stoic and afraid to wacky and loose. I’m not mad about it. I’m glad they could find their way to fun. But it’s weird on account of how often it happens.
Then I stopped in to see my friend Mina at (name redacted). She’s an old acquaintance from Patpong. A year or so ago she danced at Kings Castle. Seeing her is like sucking on a jolly rancher. That’s a hard candy from my past that brings back vivid memories of better times. And Patpong in the 20teens was definitively a better time. One thing I love about Mina is, her body is an 8 and her face is a 3. Nothing gets me frothing like a chick with a hot bod and a terrible face. It’s the fuck version of the Batmobile from the dark night. Looks like shit but kicks all asses. It’s exactly what you want from a Ptown girl. My Bangkok concs are all pretty. But the pool is so big they get lost in the vastness of it. In Pattaya if a gal’s even slightly good-looking, she’s getting a hard-on offer every time she leaves the house. In this town you need to find gals that most dudes won’t look at twice. There’s where the treasure is found. Theirs is the golden minge. The less-pounded vag. The disease-free puss.
Then I popped into Jisoo. I like that place because chicks rarely hassle me in there. I can relax. Plus there are three or four clungemeisters on the payroll. And the drinks are ridiculously strong. After one quick vodka, I parked at the outdoor bar across from Iron Club and ordered moo taut and kow nyow from the nearby cart. The glorious taste of that fried ambrosia takes me back to living in the Krabi jungle, where nearly every girl was beautiful without makeup or deodorant and where none of them had even seen a farang wang (farwang for short copyright BKK7). In those days, in that space, I was the Magellan of minge. The Columbus of clunge. The Captain Cook of clit. The Copernicus of cooter.
Everywhere in Ptown was a clusterfuck on the night. It’s not the highest high season I’ve ever seen, but it sure is goddam annoying. I’m accustomed to the bk winter tourists—solo farang sex seekers, young parents with toddlers, mobs of Sinos and Nipons. Ptown is largely Indian-Pakistani-Russian plus loads of Eurotrash dudes in clusters of four or five like they got a group rate. From end to end on the Beach Road, the reeking stench of ganja smoke was inescapable. Last night, I popped out to Friendship Market for some wine, and I couldn’t believe the throngs of gross hippy backpakers and Eurotrash wandering around my neighborhood. If this is how high season’s going to go, I might need to spend a month on Koh Samet or somewhere like it. I can’t take being around all these dumb fuckers.
In other news, I believed critics who said the Netflix movie “A House of Dynamite” is really good. Spoiler alert: it’s not. It would’ve been cool if the city they chose to nuke in the story wasn’t one that would make the world a better place if it was obliterated. I felt no empathy for the victims. Also, the plot was glaringly illogical. By the end, I was convinced the script was written by a middle-schooler, which perfectly explains why so many people liked it. 90% of the population are mentally retarded. Oh and as a “fuck you” to every sports-loving male who might see it, they shoehorned the WNBA into the last third of the plotline. Lame. As. Fuck. Oh, and also, it has no ending. The movie. Literally has no ending. They just….stopped filming.
And while we’re on the topic of shitty cinema, if you’re like me your YouTube list was force-fed a bunch of ball-lickers who got paid to make positive videos about the new Predator movie—which is utter shit by the way. Fuck me, I’m embarrassed for our species that they still think that kind of propaganda works.
Here’s something interesting (for me, at least): The tiny soi behind my building appears to be rife with clunge. A bunch of bar girls must live there, because I’m seeing a constant stream of—not beautiful, but sexy-looking chicks—lots of short-shorts and leg tattoos and tousled hair like they just got railed. The walkway from my front door looks out at the back of one of the apartments there, and each night, one of them has three or four gals doing their makeup in the nude with the curtains open. It’s quite the show. I’m not sure how I got so lucky, but one of these days I’m going to have to take a walk down there and see what all the ass is about.
For any old Members who miss my photo albums, or for anyone wanting an eyeful of redlight content, I think I managed to swap out a new paywall, so now, 10 years’ worth of redlight photos and videos are accessible with a $16 one-time payment for lifetime access. Click on the “Members Only Content” link at the top of the homepage and use the PayPal link.
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 plus a bunch of other stuff can be viewed on my YouTube channel: 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’re a Ptowner and you haven’t been through the Buakhao Market, I recommend going and having a lemon-honey or chrysanthemum drink over ice. The former is good for gut health and the latter for lowering cholesterol and stress.
