What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and here are the notes I found in my phone at the end of the week.
On Sunday and Monday, this old redlight rat was in Bangkok. I flitted up there to see a couple of my old concubines, who miss Seven’s wallet something awful. It was a pleasant-enough holiday. On leaving my apartment in Ptown, I was shocked again by the hordes of white folks in my neighborhood. It was wall-to-wall tatted-up hippy cunts. I was glad to be leaving, though I doubted Silom would be any less lousy with shitheads. At the bus station, the queue for Ekamai tickets was 12 people deep at half 10. The LCD screen was out, so everyone kept getting up to check bus numbers and each time one was called, a dozen people who weren’t on it tried to board. Every day I’m reminded that the global population is getting stupider and stupider. When we did finally line up, four Indians ignored the rest of us and walked straight to the front. I swear there needs to be a Department of Punch Police, who strike people in the face when they’re rude in public.
The bus ride was uneventful, thank God. On Nut was hot—hotter than Ptown, anyway. I was again struck by the number of random beautiful women on the skytrain. Once again, I stayed at a boutique hotel next to the Chong Nonsi BTS Station. Oldconc 1 swung by at 18.00. I told her I wanted to take some nude photos so she made me wait while she put on make-up. She was so dutiful and attentive, I barely lasted six minutes. Afterward, she insisted I not share the content with anyone. Like I want anybody to see my old balls. She said, “Please don’t let them get out. My boyfriend can never know.” I assured her no one would get a gander but me.
She left happy and I motaxi’d t’Pong, ordered krapow moo sap, sat outside King’s 1, lit up a mini-Cuban and took a half a dozen wais before settling in. The hostess asked, “Black russian?” But I went with a SML. The Thai food stall next to the beer garden does gangbuster business. And by that I mean, they throw together 20 chicken fried rice orders per 5 minutes plus 2 pad thais. The tourists are that boring with their choices. The Night Market was about 80% full at 20.20 and was a half-n-half blend of sino-nipons and vanilla farang. Lord, how I hate the whites. Chinese and Japanese are a sight better because they’re at least polite and don’t make a scene. They’re here to smoke, drink, and fuck. There’s no eat-pray-love vibe, no self-conscious pride in being a traveler the way Westerners think the whole world revolves around them and their experience is special. Though just as I wrote that, a dancer emerged from K1 to have a cigarette wearing a red bikini, and a nearby table of nipons talked about her in a very vulgar way, shouting and pointing at her crotch and making gestures with their fingers. I guess there can’t be a rule unless exceptions occur. The gal ran back inside out of embarrassment, and after that every chick that came outside had a jumper tied round her waist. Then they were rude to the old lady hostess who’s worked there for years. At that point I wondered how many I could slash with the blade in my man satchel before security intervened.
The hotties clocking in at K1 were splendid. You could tell because they looked like fuck machines in just their street clothes. King’s 3 was finally open again but my pal Pim had arrived to work at that moment, so I dipped into K1 straight after the krapow to hang with her. A lass who used to work in K3 was sat in the 2nd rotation. Six months ago she was a smoke show. Now she’s got a paunch around her navel. Of the 10 girls onstage, one was a solid 8. The rest were chubbed. Meanwhile, hottie after hottie walked in and headed to the locker room. And that’s the old adage—the chunkers have to be on time. They can’t afford the late fees. Half a dozen chicks said “Seven bai nai ma?” I responded by gently rubbing their vagines. Rota two had four hotskinnies, and a 3rd group lined up on the stools in front on the stage. The fit-to-fat ratio was around 50-50.
K3 was rammed. I spotted three lookers in a rota of nine. They were all new faces. There were no holdovers from before they shut the place in August. 20 or so customers perused the stage, including a trio of fat Indian women. The only 10 in the joint was sat with one of the ugliest nipons I’ve ever seen. She rubbed his leg while he regaled her with a monologue she couldn’t understand. I love to see it. Men who are earnest, sincere, and kind but shunned for being ugly as sin deserve the attention of a beautiful woman at least once or twice in their lives, and if they have to fly all the way to Thailand to get it, more power to them. And kudos to the lass who either overlooks his looks or is so sweet in the heart department that it doesn’t even matter to her. Fuckity fuck, but Thai women are awesome. Rota two was chunked, save for two slender hotbots.
King’s 2 was shut, so they’d just swapped out closing K3 for K2. A staffer told me they shut every Saturday to Sunday now. King’s Corner had two rotas of five. I swear I have to stop hitting the Pong on Sundays. After 15 years I should’ve learned, it’s their slow night. Though even with the sparse numbers, The Corner had two perfect 10s in the mix.
At the moment though, the skinniest girls in Patpong work at Virgin. The number of thigh gaps and sixpack abs made me dizzy. They’ve a fair share of puffy gals as well, and some uglies, but damn, the array of fit fillies is a sight to behold. It has to be said—the ladies in Patpong are better overall than Cowboy, Nana, and the whole of Ptown. There are fit girls in Pattaya, but they’re concentrated in gogos where you can’t get Lines. There are more hot bodies in the Pong than all of Soi 6. I said it, and I’m sticking by it.
After Virgin, I went to try and buy some CBD gummies from my fave place on Silom Road and it was gone, I assume because of the cunting govt’s reversal on ganja. Nothing helped me fall asleep like those indica gummies. Everything I’ve found in Ptown so far has been subpar. I was so upset I had to stop into G’s for a Hofbrau Oktoberfest and a salami flammkuchen. Guido mentioned his plan to open a second restaurant in Jomtien. It was the best news I’d heard in a long time.
The next day, I left the hotel at noon under a light rain and cool temps and headed to Cloud Nine for gummies. After that, it rained harder so I made an unscheduled stop at Shenanigan’s for a keto breakkie. ‘Twas lunch hour for the office workers in the surrounding bank buildings so every few seconds, a smoking hot 9-to-5 honey walked past. I thought about making a move on one petite lass in a super-short miniskirt but chickened out. The ladies in regular jobs tend to favor Thai men over farang. It’s not a universal rule, but the odds were stacked against me. Anyway, I had an old conc coming later who treats my wang like the world’s best lollipop. She’s 25, trim, pretty, and sweet as candy. Contrast that with the pair of middle-aged farams (farang clams) sat two tables over having a cup of tea. I reckoned they’re teachers from a nearby school. It was a perfect picture of what Thailand is for these old hags. The only other people they have to talk to are each other. Their prospects for a partner are zero. I’m probably a decade older and I’d rather die than have to speak to them, let alone be naked in a room with them.
Later on, after my conc gave me a world-class BJ, I Bolt-biked to Soi Cowboy. For once, the driver was cautious. He obeyed all traffic laws and drove under the speed limit. I was overjoyed at not having my life flash before my eyes between Silom and Sukhumvit. Dollhouse had a rota of chunkers plus two fit birds. Of course, the puffies were nude and the hot ones kept their gear on. I hundy-tipped them anyway, mostly to gauge the reaction of a young farang couple who were in for a looksee. Nothing makes me happier than watching the light drain from a farang clam’s face as she realizes that, as long as Thailand exists, she has no leverage against any man.
Long Gun’s happy hour was still going so I stopped for a SML. The hottest chick in there was one of the barmaids who looked so good I couldn’t resist telling her. Then she went and told her friends, and proceeded to watch me from a corner the rest of the time. I popped into Rainbow to see Bee. The mamasan said she was on her way but by the time I finished my vodka, she hadn’t arrived. Her bff, who also used to dance at The Strip, and who got slim and fit in 2024, had reverted back to baggy. It’s heartbreaking anytime that happens. I heard Shark had another refurbish so I swung by, and couldn’t detect any improvements to the inside. Rota 1 was all over 30 years old but four were fit for their age. I normally don’t go in there because they employ Bob James, aka Bob the Knob, aka Dave the Rave and the biggest cunt in Thailand, for their PR. I know its technically not their “fault,” but everyone who knows him knows he’s a piece of shit. So there’s at least some culpability there. Rota 2 was younger but chunkier. The DJ was the highlight of the bar. His tunes had the girls going ballistic.
I should’ve hit at least one more gogo but Cowboy gets old so fast, I just couldn’t do it. Instead, I decided to head to bed. There were no Bolt bikes, so I ended up walking to Soi 4 looking for a mo’taxi. Suddenly, I found myself outside Nana Plaza, and on a whim decided to pop in. For those who don’t know, I’m banned from the Plaza for smacking Bob James in the head in 2024. But it turns out “banned” is a loose term. It means that if Bob sees me, he’ll run like a little girl to whine at the security guards. Beyond that, though, the ban is pretty much kaput. I said hello to Dennis aka Candyman in Lollipop and Joey D in Angelwitch. They were both shocked to see this old cooch hound. “Are you unbanned?” they both asked. “Nnnnope,” was my reply. Then I slipped into Geisha, which was going off. In a rota of 15, there was one 9 and two 10s, plus I noticed three 8s waiting for their shift. One of the 10s was onstage for 30 seconds before getting pulled down for a ladydrink.
Imagine my surprise to find that Twister walled-off 1/3 of its space to create another separate gogo. It’s the same owner who gave up VirginX in Patpong. I guess Bangkok redlight real estate is a precious commodity these days. A second after sitting down, I spotted an old conc onstage—JJ, formerly of Kiss Bar (who looked as sensational as the day I met her 6 years ago) and my old number 2 concubine, who was sat with the punter next to me. She was in my harem for 10 years before getting the boot for not showing up when she said she would, and borrowing too much money on cunt credit. Once her customer left, she accosted me. It was a weird exchange. She leaned in for a hug. I grabbed her tit instead. She said “You got so slim!” I said I’d been exercising. She said “I miss you.” I said, “Liar.” She said, “You blocked me.” I said, “You borrowed money and didn’t come to my room.” She said, “I want go your room.” I said, “I live in Pattaya now.” She said OK and then awkwardly walked off. Then JJ came over and asked to sit down but I’d already paid the bin. Then I hit Lollipop for a proper convo with Dennis. He bought me a beer and we took a seat in the corner. The place was rocking, I assume due to his astute leadership. We chatted about the state of the redlight in BK and Ptown, as well as the sad downturn of western culture in the US and UK. We both acknowledged how lucky we were to’ve escaped to TLOS. I made my pitch at him about the “no Line” policy in Ptown gogos and he came out in favor of it. As a gogo boss, he made the point that if a dude really wants to get her Line, he’ll splurge for the barfine. He said a dude that doesn’t is a cheapskate. I said, “Or he’s a local and can’t afford to barfine a different chick every other day just to get a Line ID,” but I understood his point, at least. It signals a sentiment that might foretell of a similar rule coming to BK gogos.
Then I tried out Tycoon, because some of my old Patpong pals worked there once upon a time, but I spotted no familiars. The vodka-soda was 200b. I took 2 sips and bailed. Then I hit Kino, which was the last place I’d seen my old XXX Lounge friends before my ban. Back then it was called Whiskey-N-Gogo, and later Essence. None of the old honeys were there. That’s when I called it a night. I can’t wait to come back and hit Nana again, if only to rub it in Bob’s stupid cunt face.
All three Bangkok gogo zones were busy. Nana was better than I remembered. Namely Lollipop, Angelwitch, Twister, and Geisha. I would’ve liked to check out Red Dragon because they get good reviews, but since Bob the Knob works for them, I steered clear (Update: I was just informed that Shark, Red Dragon, and Mandarin have canned The Knob so I’ll be sure to check them out next time). Cowboy was busy and the vibe positive. Patpong used to be the undisputed champion of BK the redlight. Now it’s just on par with the other two.
On Tuesday morning I was on my way to Ekamai by 10.00 via the skytrain. The malls all have their Xmas decorations up already. The bus station is completely fucked at the moment, I assume for a remodel. I couldn’t find the mini-van people so I had to settle for a half-van half-bus hybrid for 160b. ‘Twas a solo seat, thank God, but as soon as I got in it, an Indian dude started chattering at me about having no room to stow his bag. I put my earbuds in, which I hoped he knew was the international sign for “fuck off.” Two gay Filipinos got on whilst chomping on 7-11 microwave spaghetti. The driver made them sit on the ground outside till their meal was done. Three Thai ladies boarded with toasties and crisps. The driver let it slide. Meanwhile the Indian and his wife argued about the luggage, squishing and shoving it every which way to get it to fit under the seat. Then the wife sat in a seat that wasn’t hers and refused to move. I guess she thought the problem with the bags gave her the right to sit wherever she wanted. Jean-Paul Sartre famously said “Hell is other people.” Spot on JP, spot on.
We departed 30 minutes late because they couldn’t fill the last seat. Once we got underway, the Indian woman started yapping, and she didn’t stop for two fucking hours. The other 18 people were quiet as church mice but the Indiclam didn’t even notice she was the only one making noise, save for her husband’s brief interjections. I guess I know why the ratio of male to female Indians in Ptown is a thousand to one. They’re all just after a few moments of quietude. When I become president I’m going to make a law that Indians have to ride buses exclusively for Indians. Then they can all talk at the top of their lungs while the rest of us ride in peace. Speaking of, I finally got some silence when the bus dropped me at South Pattaya Road. From there it was five minutes on a Bolt bike to my doorstep.
That evening, after binge watching The Beast in Me, I walked up Soi Buakhao to Hungry Hippo for happy hour 159b spaghetti bolognese. Two months ago, Id’ve made that walk alone. That night I had to zigzag round dozens of cunting tourists. They don’t know where to walk or stand. They block traffic in the road. They wander here and there. I hope it brings in lots of cash for local businesses because that’s all these shitheads are good for.
After dinner I was too early for LK so I baht bussed to Soi 6 and had drinks with Anwar, Pang, and May, three of the soi’s loveliest lasses, making sure to massage all of their naughty bits in turn. Then I beat it to WS. Pin-Up didn’t disappoint. There was a 9.5 onstage when I got there, and the bird I used to hundy-tip that went missing some weeks ago was back. “Where you been?” I asked. “Chiang Mai,” she said. “But I’ve been back for a week, where were you?” “Bangkok,” I replied.
Atmos had none of the girls I usually flirt with, but there are always a few worth ogling. Bangkok bar staff were sour about the Pin-Up group, I assume because they’re easy to hate. They turned an old formula into something more. Something better. Worse in some ways, yes, but overall what they provide is a more titillating gogo experience, even for local farts like me who don’t barfine. It’s still a good time every time. I made it to Chick three minutes before the end of happy hour. There are girls in there now who wai me and I don’t know who they are. Most likely they’re babes I’ve hundy-tipped while drunk and just don’t remember. But it’s good to know them clams know my face, no matter what the reason. That’ll be parlayed into something significant later. I’m not sure yet what that something is, but I know there is one.
My 7th and final vodka of the night was had in Jisoo, where the girls also remember me for a different reason. I’m the farang who 1—speaks Thai and 2—shows up with bags of candy half the time. Not this time, though. This time I rubbed a tiny PYT’s pussy with a hundred baht bill before bailing.
In other news, I learned that Dragon A-Gogo on Walking Street is no longer one of the Pin-Up cartel’s bars. I’d wondered for a long time why the gals in there were so ugly. I couldn’t figure out how the group with the hottest dancers in Ptown would let one of their joints get overrun with dogs. Now it all makes sense, and I can avoid going in there for the foreseeable.
Wednesday’s walk was a windy one. Alliteration aside, the heavy clouds and cool breeze got temps down to 21 (70 Fahrenheit for you Yanks). Farang were out in droves to exercise, while Thais bundled up in coats and hoodies. Thursday and Friday mornings were the same, except Friday’s wind came with a light rain that kept some tourists off the beach. Instead, they trawled the South Road in sixes and twelves. I’ve no idea why. There’s nothing over there except the Buakhao Market. That place was a zoo. The pensioners were out in force, some solo, some with their middle-aged Thai girlfriends slash caretakers. I got a lemon-honey drink and ambled home.
That night I skipped to the Dark Side and 66 Tavern for Bangkok Andy’s birthday. He’s the famous former owner of Electric Blue Patpong among other gogos. At 70, he’s not only survived decades in the redlight scene—he dominated. Now semi-retired in Ptown, he watches over Route 66, Paddy’s Irish Pub, and a motorcycle tour business in Chiang Mai. The last time I saw him, he’d had a stroke and two heart attacks. Imagine my surprise to find him back to his robust self, looking none the worse for wear after nearly kicking the bucket. He looked healthy as a horse.
He saw me from across the room and shouted “Seven! Did you catch AIDS, why are you so slim?” The party was a collection of his Pattaya friends plus a few Patpong veterans. I found a seat with two former bosses of Electric Blue and XXX Lounge. We were all surprised to still be alive and well, considering the kind of wild nightlife shenanigans we got up to over the years. They were shocked to learn I’d relocated to the beach. As true Bangkokians, they said they can only tolerate a few days here. I know how they feel. Sometimes I look out my balcony at the dirty road, remembering my previous view of Lumphini Park, and wonder if I made a mistake. But the hard truth is, the move was more for economics than anesthetics. It had to be done. And look, I’m in good company. Andy’s here. Jersey Dan is here. RJ was here, but he’s now back on Soi Cowboy. I have to check out his gogo in the next week or two. But Ptown has character. Not great character, but it’s a scene. Not a great scene, but better than anything the US has to offer.
As the party wound down, it was Andy, Jim, and Christian, and me listening to them reminisce about the old days with random stories about Charlie Sheen and Robin Williams in the 80s, murders and suicides, dudes who got cancer, dudes who beat cancer, dudes Andy head-butted and/or choked, eg Stickboy and Bob James, the biggest cunt in Thailand, though those guys refer to him as “Albino Bob.”
By midnight it was just Andy, Jim Morrison, and me. It’s always fun to listen to those guys talk about the glory days. Back then, I was a noob punter in constant awe of its inhabitants. Then I became one, and the world changed forever. And while it’s a great walk down Memory Lane to see those guys, I’m a midget among gogo giants in that setting, so I bade them farewell and we all promised to hang out again soon, though it likely won’t happen until one of their birthdays comes round again. If you’ve never ridden a Bolt bike from the Dark Side at that hour, let me tell you: it’s kids on drugs with no helmets and no speed limits. I got home in record time by the skin of my teeth and nearly froze to death. It hasn’t been this cold in Thailand since 2016.
Merely hours after I questioned the wisdom of my move to Pattaya, the Good Lord handed down the most beautiful Saturday imaginable, complete with cool wind and cloudless blue sky. I slept in and then hoofed it to the beach around noon for a pineapple shake and to lounge under an umbrella. ‘Twas rammed with people, mostly Russians turning themselves from white to red. Just as I was starting to relax, a 40something solo Eurodouche dragged a chair directly into my view and stripped down to a speedo. I nearly puked up my shake. A Thai dude tried to sell me polarized sunglasses for 600b. I talked him down to 200, knowing it was still double what I should pay, but the compromise made us both happy. An Indian dude tried to sit on one of the lounge chairs. The little Thai lady told him it’s 100b per hour. He sprang up like he’d been tazed and scampered off.
I’ll say this for the Indians. They all look pretty much the same. Same build, same hair, same facial features, same silly fashion. Not so with farang. They run the gamut, from normal-looking to completely mutated, like monsters in a David Cronenberg movie. And the weird-looking ones always seem to be the ones who take their shirts off to walk the beach in jeans, socks, and sandals.
At 13.00 it was too nice a day to go home, so I strolled along Walking Street till I found an open joint on the seaward side. I got a plate of chicken and a SML, feeling like a proper tourist. Waves crashed against the shore like the actual ocean. The sound took me back to Malibu, Sardinia, San Francisco, Costa Rica, Baja…many of the places that formed and informed my self-concept. The beer was warm, and the chicken failed to impress so I won’t name the joint. But the view and sea breeze were serene. Too strong for a table of dorks who retreated inside the restaurant, away from Mother Nature’s salty spray, which coincidentally was my nickname in high school.
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 button.
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: Get a blanket, if you don’t already have one. In 15 years in TLOS I’ve never bought one. I was gifted one by a concubine in 2015, used it once, and never took it out of the closet after that. When I moved to Ptown, I left it behind, thinking it a waste to haul it down here. The past two nights, I’ve had to pile bath towels on the bed to keep from shivering…and actually, it’s worked out pretty well. Forget buying a blanket if you don’t have one, and just use towels instead. Or hell, throw your clean laundry on and crawl under that. Because let’s be real—how long can this cold snap actually last?
