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 or Monday (I can’t remember), I set out after sundown for food and distraction. As usual, my feet took me to the beach where I dropped off a hundy with Apple, the freelancer who only goes with Indians, then baht-bussed to The 6. We got stopped by seven havahala havlavas. There was only room for four in the songthaew so they stood arguing about whether to board while the rest of us sat there tolerating them. Finally, they decided to cram in, pushing people to the side to make room. I was standing on the back, thank fuck. It’s another instance where a Punch Police squad would come in handy (throwback to two weeks ago’s post).
On Soi 6, two of my fave smoke shows were already engaged with customers. I had one drink with Pang, then went down to look for Beem. Her mamasan said she went to McDonald’s so I fucking walked there, thinking it was cover for a barfine. But sure enough, she was at the counter. I walked in and paid for her food, at which point she latched onto me like a barnacle. We chatted while waiting for her order. Every man in the joint stared. She was in her beer bar uniform, which was a bikini top and skirt that barely covered a third of her magnificently tattooed ass. We walked back to her bar and I sipped vodka while she massaged my balls. It turned out I’d also paid for the mamasan’s burger so she bought me a second cocktail. By the time I finished, I was prettyy drunk, what with forgetting to eat all day yet again. I had a couple of Beem’s french fries and then baht bussed to WS and straight to Pin Up before happy hour ended. The joint was packed with solo sex tourists, all seemingly looking for a wingman. I got wai’d by half a dozen staff and then when I sat down, three dudes in my proximity kept trying to make eye contact. They’re the kind of tourists who think, “Oh, you’re trawling for gash on your own too? Well, by golly, we should be temporary friends.” Uh, fuck no, douche, and go fuck yourself.
Shark has a happy hour, but if you miss it, they also have daily drink specials at 105b all night. Monday is Pastis. Tuesday is Jack Daniel’s. Wednesday is gin. Thursday is Sangsom. Friday is black label. Saturday is vodka. Sunday is rum. Rotations were 35 girls each. The one before me had one perfect 10 body. Her face was a 6 but she had moxy to make up for it. She had a permanent frown, that is until I hundy-tipped her. That turned her frown upside down, I tell you what.
Then I flitted to Fahrenheit to hang with my friend Mina but she wasn’t there. Instead I had to endure the hungry looks of a dozen gals who would’ve gladly taken his old fart home for rent money. Speaking of, I got three texts from Bangkok girls who couldn’t make rent and wanted to exchange a BJ for cash. I told them to wait a day or two. Tuesday was my birthday, and I thought to spend it in Patpong like so many before, but I wasn’t sure how it’d play out this year given how shitty the BK redlight has become. But I didn’t want to spend it in Ptown, even though Beem said she’d blow me for free. It was a tempting offer.
On Monday I started back on keto for real, so it was 2 hard-boiled eggs at 14.00 and chicken on a stick for dinner. I picked it up at the food market near Soi 6, then bumped into Beem who was on her way to get coffee. I slipped her a hundy for it and she leaned in to kiss me in her black g-string and bra while a passing white family froze and stared in horror. Beem continued to the coffee shop and I rocked over to buy a drink for Pang, forgetting she wants 3k for an hour plus three ladydrinks plus the room. Yeah, right. So after one vodka and 10 minutes of rubbing her minge, I doubled back to Beem who jumped in my lap and started grinding on my old crotch till it rolled over to see what the fuck was going on.
By Monday 90% of the Fireworks Festival riffraff had vacated. I misread the time on my phone and got to WS at 19.00, so I walked all the way to the Anytime Café near the pier. They have a happy hour BOGO for any same-price cocktails so I got a Long Island and a bowl of Sangria. ‘Twas a night in a life of bad decisions so I thought, what the hell.
At that hour, mobs of Chinese tourists rolled in from the Koh Larn boats. Three young Eastern bloc farang took the table next to mine. You could tell they were from a former Soviet era nation by their terrible haircuts, bad tattoos, Borat mustaches, and full basketball gear, as though they just finished riding the bench in a Euro League game. I support douches in TLOS. Live your best life, I say. But there’s definitely a hierarchy of human value. I’m not claiming to be high on that list. I’m just acknowledging I’m aware there is a list.
In Pin-Up I was privy to the good luck ritual where everyone rings the bell at their table and a naked girl walks in circles dabbing everyone with whiskey. A new manager came over—Asian dude—and introduced himself. He said, “I noticed you were ringing the bell along with the girls. What happened was, there were too many ghosts in the bar…” I stopped him and said, “I come here every night.” He said “Oh, oh, ok. But you’re leaving now?” “I have to hit Chick, Atmos, and XS before happy hour ends.” He nodded and said, “OK well when I see you again I’ll say hi.” I wanted to tell him it wasn’t necessary, that I’d be coming here long after he’s moved on, but I just patted his shoulder and bailed.
Atmos had all the regular gals I avoid talking to and none of the ones I typically tip. Chick was full of hot clunge per usual. The manager came over to shoot the breeze for a bit. I got into XS with two minutes to spare before happy hour ended. The barmaid hustled to get my drink before 21.00 to I tipped her 50b for the effort. A puffy farang with a red beard, tank top and short shorts sat next to me and took more of an interest in me than the girls onstage. I pulled the blade out of my mansatchel just in case he created a problem.
As if someone flipped a switch on 1 December, the breeze that’d kept Pattaya so pleasant for the past month abruptly stopped, and by Wednesday the city was draped in a translucent shroud of pollution that felt like an insult. My morning walks turned into hazardous excursions that had me coughing and sneezing for the rest of the day. The 3rd was my birthday, so I schlepped over to Toscana for charcuterie, fromage, lamb, and a Cuban. 10 of my last 12 bdays were spent in Patpong, in the company of those Electric Blue-turned-XXX/Black Pagoda girls that made the old redlight the best in the world for a time. Now there’s only a remnant of that precious crew remaining. Ploy had a kid and moved to Rayong. Bpai quit the pole to sell coconuts in Samut Sakhon. Taitle aged out. She’s too embarrassed of her 30-year-old body to work in the gogo. Earn’s Thai boyfriend taught her how to DJ, so she does that full-time now, depriving mongers and punters of her salacious body. Beer refuses to work if Earn’s not with her. Sai is still working. She and Mint are both at Kinky Girls. Oil’s at Twister. Momay went to prison for drugs. Bum had a kid, got a tomboy girlfriend, and disappeared. So my hedonistic birthdays of yore are gone, never to return. The best I can do now is a nice dinner and a tryst on the 6.
The “small” meat plate was huge. I got a glass of cab, and at Toscana, even the house wine is fantastic. The combined taste of cured meat, hard cheese, and great wine sends me into fits of nostalgia. I get that ambrosia in my mouth and suddenly I’m in Paris, or Barcelona. Alsace, Mallorca, Sardegna, Milan, Napa, Cambria, Malibu. The backward track of my life can be measured in empty Pinot bottles, strips of Parma ham, and endless blue-green piles of Stilton.
I paired the lamb with a glass of shiraz. All I can say is WOW. The right chef, right wine, and right cut of meat can create a trifecta of perfection. A trifection (copyright BKK7) that momentarily stops the world from spinning and reminds a peasant like me simultaneously that he’s alive, and that death is coming. And, I suppose, that’s also what birthdays do.
I knew I wouldn’t be fucking anyone on the day, but for a monger in Thailand, that’s no big deal. I railed a gal on Monday and will probably get a couple BJs before the week is out. It doesn’t have to happen on a specific date. Who gives a shit about that?
I popped down to WS a full hour before the gogos opened. It was either that or re-walk The 6 which didn’t excite me, or go home. I pulled up across from Atmos with a white ruskie aka a Dude to watch the chickies come to work. A balding old fart took the table next to mine and did the same, though he somehow managed to come off as a dirty pervert, craning his neck to ogle only the skinny girls as they passed. He kept picking at his ears and then inspecting the end of his finger like he was rating the discharge. Fecking hell.
After three white ruskies I walked down to McDonald’s for an ice cream cone. On my way back I spotted the short, bald, slimy cheap Charlie from Patpong…the dude that would buy a Chang from 7-11 and sneak it into the gogo so he wouldn’t have to pay bar prices. Later, I saw him later in Atmos drinking a club soda, because he’s too cunting cheap to pay for alcohol. And it was fucking happy hour. Jesus Christ and the donkey He rode in on, how does a douche like that not kill himself? I mean, I’m all for every loser getting what he can in TLOS. It’s why we’re here. But for fuck’s sake, how can you keep up the cheapskate everywhere you go? It’s perfectly fine for a piece of shit to come to Thailand to try to elevate himself. But at some point, one must elevate. To stay a piece of shit is unmanly. Mike McKay aka Stickboy is a prime example. So is Bob James aka Bob the Knob aka Dave the Rave. You can be a scumbag when you move here, but somewhere along your journey, you should grow beyond your scumbaggery. If you don’t, you’re not a man. You’re a diseased twat.
At 19.59 I was still too early for Pin-Up so I sat on the bench by the door. An off-duty gogo dancer was uneased by my presence so I gave her a lollipop. It’s amazing what a bit of candy will smooth over. No wonder predators use it to lure the unassuming. I had one vodka and bailed.
Shark on Walking Street is awesome. I’m so happy their organization doesn’t employ Bob James anymore. I avoided the bar because of their connection to that piece of human garbage. Now that they’re no longer aligned with him, I’m free to enjoy their excellent gogo. The staff are amazing and the chicks are ridonkuhot. Even the unattractive ones seem fun.
Then I swung through the aforementioned Atmos, followed by Chick. There was a dancer in there whom I’ve hundy-tipped for her excellent physique. That night, however, I noted she’d lost the definition in her midsection. I tipped her anyway but took the opportunity to scold her. I pinched the fat at her navel and slapped her hand. She said “Coke too much.” I said she was correct and needed to stop. “Only water,” I said. She said OK. “And ice. You can eat ice.” She laughed and I bailed before I could embarrass myself any further. After that I made a drunken run through Coco, where all the girls are very flirtatious, especially the ugly ones, and then called it a night.
On Thursday the breeze was back and so the smog was gone. This old fart walked down to the beach to have a kiwi shake and try to block out the presence of other tourists. My earbuds helped. The day was glorious. The foreigners, food hawkers, and petrol smell couldn’t put a damper on it. Except when the fucking American to my right started blasting music from his phone and the mom to my left turned on nursery songs for her toddler. That’s when I had to get outta there. I walked all the way to The 6, arriving just as all the bars opened up. I stopped outside Beem’s bar but she hadn’t finished showering. At that moment, a cluster of people ended up clogging the soi right where I was standing, and a Chinese tourist on a scooter was forced to stop. He honked, and as I was the one directly in front of him, I slowly turned to look in his eyes. From the expression on his face, I must’ve looked angry, because he jerked to the side and hit the gas. And I guess I was angry because I took a swing at his head, missing by inches. He had a helmet on so it wouldn’tve done any damage but it would’ve made a point. And that’s what I’m about these days—making a point. Especially one that requires violence to get across.
I had a beer with Anwar and then bailed to the food market. Since I’m back on keto, it’s a great place to enjoy meat. I had a half rack of ribs and two skewers of shrimp. Delicious.
My Saturday started with a mild case of food poisoning, and by mild i mean, I puked and shat simultaneously for about 3 hours, which is child’s play compared to a real case. One time, while working in Seoul, I had a bad oyster and spewed from both ends for two straight days. And because I’m a monger of high quality, I didn’t let something like that stop me from hitting The 6 one last time in the week. When the spigot of my ass finally settled down, I Bolt biked to that most loved and hated soi and tipped a few with some of what are now my regular drinking buddies: Pang, Beem, and J. I also spotted a new (well, new to me) cutie and brought her into the fold—Meenah, 25 from Minburi. She had the familiar sweet Soi 6 disposition: shy and innocent, while at the same time casually massaging your balls like she wasn’t even aware it was happening.
Pang was her usual polite self. We’ve established that her bar’s fine is too high for this old rat to shorttime her, and so I’m just a presence she must endure if she wants a drink. I do it because she’s just naturally beautiful, and I like to look at her face whilst sipping vodka. Beem is always spoiling for a BJ, but I think I can only manage to get excited for that about once a week. J is a wild child, and hard to look at, but her body is a wonderland and she’s very hands-on, which is an appealing combination.
Then I walked the Beach Road as the sun set, and because my friend Jim Morrisson (no relation) suggested I hive the TQ another chance, I moseyed in. The locals looked like rejects from an Ugly Fuckers convention and the ladies weren’t much better. I yri3d hard to find one to fixate on. The best I could do was a 40-year-old with a fit body and a face on the downward slope of life. I necked my 229b b ruskie and got out of there as quickly as possible. After that short run, I headed home, wary of another intestinal explosion. And that low-key nothing-night is how I rounded out the week.
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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.
What Grinds My Gears This Week: Periodically I’m going to replace the Pro Tip Post Script with a winge. Here’s one: And I know they all seem to be motorbike taxi related, but that’s how good life is in TLOS. There’s not much else to complain about. Anyway, Pattaya has a real shortage of mo’taxi drivers. It wasn’t as apparent during low season, but now that every tourist puts Bolt on their phone the minute they land, it sometimes takes 10 minutes for a bike, in a town where the average ride is three minutes. Half the time, I just end up walking.
