What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is what I found in my phone’s notepad at the end of the week…
The start of the week marked the end of my brother’s month-long sojourn into the seedy back alleys of the Pattaya redlight scene. He’s now safely back in California, counting the days till he can return to TLOS and live the dream again. After dropping him at Suvarnabhumi, I taxied to Silom and got a hotel near my old apartment for a few days’ amusement and some torrid liaisons with my old Bangkok harem.
It was nice having my sib here, and good practice for when our mom inevitably kicks over and he moves here permanently. He did well on his own over at View Talay, with me a good 10-minute drive south and east. But he is disabled, and that hindrance did show itself on repeat. For example, he has no short-term memory. It presented a real problem every time we went out to eat, because in order to bang his whores properly, he’d take a Viagra and a Cialis, and the only side effect for him is, his throat closes up. So he either needs to eat before he doses or he needs to take tiny bites and eat slowly. And one thing my 350 pound warthog of a brother doesn’t do is eat slowly. Every time we sit down in a restaurant I say, “Now remember—take one tiny bite at a time, chew it all the way, then wait till it goes down before you take another bite.” Ok, he says. A minute later he’s chomping four huge simultaneous bites out of his burger, chewing twice and swallowing. 30 seconds after that he’s in the toilet making himself throw up. It happened no less than five times. And because he loves food as much or more than poontang, we had to plan our mongering around which fare caught his fancy. The night he left, with all of Pattaya’s food at his fingertips, he chose Sizzler because their fried shrimp is similar to what he gets back in Cali, and because he wanted to go to Swenson’s afterward. As a not insane person, I can’t get my head around scheduling your entire life around—not just food, but junk food. He loves it more than life itself. Mere hours before boarding the plane back to Cali, in the midst of a fit of diarrhea, he was undeterred from shoveling food down his hamburger hatch. But that’s over now, thank fuck. Here’s how a few days in Bangkok shook out… Before my Tuesday sojourn, I entertained an old concubine from before the move. She was, in short, magnificent. Having her naked body in my depraved hands again was like revisiting an old drug after going clean. She’s back on the pole in Nana after a few years away from the life. She complained that, at 28, she’s too lazy to dance and can’t compete with younger girls for customers. I can’t understand what she’s talking about. She’s still a smoke show. Having her naked body lying across mine again was like jumping in a sexy time machine. She’s marked the past few years of my sexual validation like dots and dashes of morse code that says “Seven…is…a…pimpdaddy.” And since I get my sense of validation from how hot my bed partner is, she’s been more than therapeutic. Her tits and ass literally qualify and quantify my sense of self. It took less than 20 minutes to ravage her tight, tiny body and then I was out the door and onward to Patpong
Stop one was, of course, King’s Castle 1, after being accosted momentarily by the Thai doorman at Radio City. “Seven what name your bar in Pattaya?” he asked. My bar? “Yeah, everyone said you opened a bar.” No, no. I opened no bars. I just drink in them.
K1’s roster was 99% newclunge. Of the newbies, one third were 9s and 10s. I was shocked. The rest were chunkmonsters, which wasn’t as surprising. ‘Twas the same bar staff, though. My vodka soda appeared as I sat down. My galpal Pim was engaged with a fat old farang, so I didn’t alert her to my presence. I did notice she’d lost weight, and briefly considered barfining her before being distracted by hotter minge onstage.
It’s a well-known fact that Bangkok gogo dancers, and BK chicks in general, are prettier than Pattaya girls. But every time I see it with my own eyes, I’m newly stunned by the contrast. The flipside of that coin is, many BK girls possess an air of aloofness. One might call it stuck-upedness, though it’s not always the case. Ptown slags, on the other hand, hang loose, both literally and figuratively. They are two separate worlds of whoring, and both have their pros and cons. It seems that whenever I’m in Bangkok, I miss the baudy, steamy allure of Ptown slags, and when I’m back home, I yearn for the pretty glamour of BK babes. But that’s the life of a monger with too many choices. The grass is always greener, I suppose.
The clams in K3 were also 99% new, though less-fetching. I had girls giving me the “come hither” smile like I was a goddam tourist. And I suppose after living in Pattaya for almost 6 months, I am one here. King’s Corner had only 2 customers—me, and an old broken down farang, with eight in a rotation and none to write a blog about, which was disappointing, as the Corner used to be the one with all the hotties. I chalked it up to the fact that it was a Monday. Virgin had only two dancers that I recognized. Everyone knew me, though. The manager sauntered over and said, “Welcom baaaaack! Enjoy naka.”
My one-night Monday take on the Pong was that it has diminished in clunge power since I was last there. A remnant of the hottie factor remains—a topic I’ll return to later—but nothing in comparison to Patpong in the 20teens, which was nothing compared to the 80s. For that reason, I hopped a Bolt bike and sped to Nana, stopping briefly to chat with Candyman at Lollipop before checking on what is now half a dozen former Patpong girls who call Twister home.
I’m still put off by seeing dudes drinking club soda in the gogo. Intellectually I get it. I don’t have many years left of nightlife drinking. Sometimes I think I should already be one of these pussies. But another part of me wants to go out like Hemingway. To drink until I’m in the casket. I can’t make up my mind whether to go out long and softly, taking vitamins and sprinkling fibre on my cereal, or in a blaze of unseen glory as the lunatic in the bar, wielding a knife and a mug of ale.
A barmaid came up and said “Not see you long time.” I’m getting tired of explaining my absence. Of course, that absence is longer when it comes to Nana. Should I tell her I moved to Ptown last August? Or should I say a walking pile of vaginal discharge named Bob James had me banned for smacking him in the head, and it took me a while to figure out nobody in Nana cares what Bob says. The whole time I was in Twister, chicks I didn’t know walked by and said my name. And I don’t know if it’s because I’m redlight famous, or if i have early onset dementia and just can’t remember these clams. I’d be upset about it, but I get laid too often to worry about anything. I’m going to die, that is certain. Sooner rather than later. But my corpse will be a testament to how every man should’ve lived. It will bear the residue of some of the best minge the human race ever produced. Fucking etch that on my tombstone.
At some point I checked out On Top. It’s a 3rd floor gogo owned by the Billboard group. They have 4 booths that you must share with strangers if you sit there, or scattered stools around the stage. I opted for the latter, and was nose-to-clam with a very fetching tattooed redhead. We were both embarrassed at how close my face was to her cooter. I de-escalated the situation with a hundy in her bikini bottoms. In that gogo, there were a handful of very beautiful, sexy lasses, along with a chunk contingent that seems impossible to avoid in current year. 210b for a vodka, which is too steep for a bar with such little to offer.
Meanwhile, Geisha was a complete and utter clusterfuck of customers and clunge. A clungesterfuck, if you will. There were easily over 100 chicks in there, and the vibe was a tidal wave of pheromones and flesh. I nearly passed out. It wouldn’t be a trip to Nana without hitting Red Dragon, where the hot predator vibe continues to make waves. They aren’t all hot, but the ones who are are like sharks in a sunny blue reef. 200b for a vodka is a bit of a ball ache, though. After that, I called it a night.
I know I’ve said it a dozen times, but it’s a good way to compare the BK redlight to Ptown. Bangkok’s vibe is to Pattaya what Blade Runner is to the original Total Recall. BK is a sleek, neon-lit dystopia. Ptown is a mutant-filled wasteland. But that’s not a bad thing. Sometimes you wanna see a chick with 3 titties—figuratively speaking.
After conc number 2 on Wednesday, I wanted to just stay in bed. Instead I hauled my ass up and schlepped to Soi Cowboy, to provide blog fodder for the 10 of you who read these posts. I arrived after 22.00 and went straight to Long Gun. There were no open seats thanks to a gaggle of farang couples, the females of which whooped and hollered like they thought they were in their own personal Hangover movie. I then popped to Rainbow and ran smack into Bee, who I’d missed on my last three visits. She was ecstatic to see an old Patpong chum, and I was happy to squeeze her tits. We chatted about better times, when she worked at The Strip and I was the Baron von Pong. She said lots of Laos girls are there now, at what is now called Kinky Girls. I can’t go in there because the mamasan wants to murder me. But I still have friends there, namely Sai formerly of XXX Lounge, and Mint formerly of Kiss Bar. They’re both very sweet, but also past their prime. When I watch old videos of them onstage pre-Covid, I’m astounded at how sexy they were back then. Childbirth and years of drug use have frayed their edges a bit, I’m afraid.
For the first time in 16 years, the staff Dollhouse made me put my phone away, and so in response I won’t say a thing about them except they charge 190b for vodka and one of their dancers is the butterest butterface I’ve ever seen. Her face was buttered in reverse proportion to her body’s hotness.
Then I went and hung out with Captain Hornbag for a chin wag. We shot the shit about the state of the redlight. I agreed with his assessment that Cowboy Needs nana-like security to keep out the lookieloos, and that of the three redlights, Nana is currently king.
He mentioned that the dearth of hotties has to do with all the new escort agencies that function as online brothels. They use Telegram to connect with customers, so you need to have an in if you want to partake. Prices are quite reasonable compared to the outlandish shorttime fees that gogo dancers are charging. He mentioned that the hottest chick on Cowboy is a tall Thai-Chinese girl at Rio, but I don’t go in there because they always pad my bill. Though as an aside, Rio is where I barfined my very first gogo dancer back in 2010. She was a dark-skinned hotskinny from Isaan, spoke no English, and was a beautiful baptism by fire into this redlight life. And not to disparage Hornbag’s taste but I spotted a superhottie in Tilac that made my toes curl. She was, unfortunately, the only good-looking gal in the joint.
Bad Beach had a blafrican barmaid, which I found to be strange and unsettling. Speaking of, the slew of blafrican freelancers on soi 4 has gotten out of hand. Thailand needs a crew of immigration enforcement like ICE in the US who can roll up on a herd of foreign harlots, hustle them into a van, and ship them out of the country. The reason I know about the freelancer plague is because after Cowboy, I popped back to Nana, trying again to see my old Pong friends in twister. Imagine my surprise when I walked in a saw Luktal, formerly known as Cat Girl from Bada Bing, shaking her ass onstage. I hundy-tipped her and we chatted for a bit. “Not see you long time” is the phrase I can’t get away from. She was chubbier than when I last saw her. I also spotted three former King’s Castle girls, confirming the theory that many of better-looking clams are gravitating from the Pong to Nana. 165b vodka, might be the cheapest in the Plaza.
I ventured into K-68, which was 99% full. I failed to see what the fuss was about. And this brings up a dangerous moment for Nana. The current rosters of many bars doesn’t match the hype and the foot traffic. Maybe it won’t become a problem. Maybe dudes will keep coming there because it’s the only place to go. But as a witness of the heyday of the previous decades, and the drop in overall ladyquality, I don’t see the hottie factor meeting the ratio of customer to clunge. 200b vodka. Then I hit Tycoon, because the dickless cunt Bob James used to work for them. I don’t know if he still does but I have a theory that, with the exception of the Billboard groups, anyone who hires him eventually goes out of business. Also I used to know a couple of slags who worked in there. They were gone, though, and the vodka was 300b. I spotted one 9 in the roster. Then I went back to Twister to sit outside and have a mini Liga 9 and the cunt mamasan said I couldn’t smoke it. I had a 180b SML in Lollipop with Candyman instead and watched the human zoo going in and out. He mentioned missing the days when Stickman had something worthwhile to blog about, and that since relocating to New Zealand, the content just isn’t the same. I said nothing, since I’ve always found Stick’s blog to be insufferably boring. But he did used to have his finger on the pulse of the redlight scene. And Candy has a point—there’s not really anyone doing what Stickman used to do. There’s a piece missing from the nightlife blog scene. I see two reasons for that. First, nobody reads anymore. People watch TikTock and Instagram shorts. They don’t fucking read. And second, and maybe this connects to the first, is that nobody in the rightlight is smart enough or talented enough to write high quality content. There are a lot of them out there, all shooting their shot, and they’re all fucking terrible. I think the old farts will have to admit it’s the end of an era. The written word as a medium is dead.
After bidding farewell to Candyman, by some strange bent of the cosmos, I found myself back in Patpong as the night market was packing up, and went straight to K1. It was like a prison riot in there. You could smell the sex in the air. I half expected the girls to transform into vampires and kill all the dudes like that scene in From Dusk still Dawn. My buddy Pim came to sit with me for a spell and let me play with her minge. A trend in all three redlights all week long, in addition to white couples infesting the bars like roaches, was fucking cunt-ass farang climbing onstage in the gogo. It happened in Hot Lips on Cowboy and Tycoon in Nana. When it went down in K1 I snapped a photo so as to shame the twat who did it. It’s bad when a dude does it. It’s worse when a farang clam does it.
On Wednesday I had no concubine scheduled, but Buddha or the universe or something came through when an old playmate who I hadn’t seen in years messaged out of the blue to ask for money. “You’re in luck,” I replied. “I in town.” I know she was disappointed. She’d hoped she could just coax cash out of me without doing any work. But that’s not how Seven rolls. He’s going to get his pound of flesh—literally—no matter what. So I had her over for some nostalgic nastiness, and she came through brilliantly as always. There’s something extra satisfying about revisiting the cooch of a girl who thought she got away. The day they relent, and kneel naked before me once again, is like a kind of whore homecoming. I feel like Caesar. I came, I saw, I reconquered, I came again. So long was our tryst, and so exhausting, that I didn’t bother going out. After she left, I collapsed and passed out.
On Thursday I switched hotels and then went for a mini Liga cigar and a pint of Oktoberfest at G’s. I arrived one minute after open, but they weren’t finished wiping down the terrace. I asked to sit there anyway, and the Thai dude said No. After momentarily considering taking his head off, I turned and exited. It occurred to me as I walked to Shenanigan’s where I’m not allowed to smoke, that I have a foul, knee-jerk temper that I can’t control, and one of these days I’m going to snap and kill someone. Most likely it’ll be Bob James, the dickless cunt. In any case, it worries me. I don’t have a short fuse—I have no fuse. It’s unsettling.
That evening, old conc number 1 came over. In the last decade, the closest this dilapidated gogo rat has come to anything resembling the sentiment of “love” has been with her. She’s been with me for 9 years. In my time maintaining a harem, the longest anyone has stayed was 10 years, so she’s either coming up on her expiry date or she’s going to break the record. Every inch of her splendiferous body holds a memory. The lines of her tattoos are like a roadmap to past ecstasy that without exaggeration justifies my existence. She was sweet and affectionate like I imagine a girlfriend would be, and some small part of me considered monogamy for about three seconds. But once the coitus had ended, I reverted back to swashbuckling pervert, and after she left, I scooted t’Pong to peruse the minge. It was a complete reversal from Tuesday. The King’s gogos were packed to the rafters with superhot clunge, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
The Thai guy outside Radio City coaxed me inside. They had four hotskinnies and one butterface. The rest were wretched. Contrast that with King’s 1, which was a boiling-hot cauldron of gorgeous tits and ass. In one rotation of 30 I spotted ten 9s and a 10. The rota in waiting was the chubby set. Even so, they had two 8s and two 9s. I did what I normally do and sit-danced, moving my neck and shoulders to the beat in a classic 90s MC Hammer style, and half a dozen girls lost their shit. To the veterans, it’s just Seven being a spaz as usual, but the newbies got a kick out of it. Then I slid to the terrace for (finally) a mini Liga and b ruskie, and suddenly it was like I’d never left. Actually that’s not true. There were two big changes. The first was the wave of disgust I felt for the tourist set. Compared to the teeming streets of ptown, these people are soft. The oldest, fattest, baldest pensioner on Buakhao is tougher than any of the fannies wandering the Patpong Night Market. The second is, I’m not sorry I moved. The last three days, and trips to all the redlights, have affirmed my decision to relocate was the right one. Pattaya is just more fun. There’s more redlight to wring out. The girls aren’t prettier but there are more of them. Sitting in the place I’d fit in like a hand in a glove for 10 years, all I could think was how badly I wanted to go home. Adding insult to ignominy, the gogos were again stuffed with white couples. Someone in the Thai govt needs to put a stop to all these farang clams coming in. Fucking round them up at the airport and put them on a boat to Bali.
As I sat there smoking, three separate Indians came up to sell me peanuts inside of a minute. The Pong doesn’t need one of those cunts, let alone a trio. A gross blonde farang dude with a top knot barfined a girl out of K1. They got 50 feet past the door before she ran back to get something. As the seconds passed and she didn’t re-emerge, a look of panic spread over his twat face. Then she bounced out and he practically puked from relief. Dude actually thought she was gonna ghost him in real time.
King’s 3 was absolutely rammed with customers and two rotas of 8. The first had a smoking hot 10 right in the center, like a fuck-figurine atop a sex cake. If I hadn’t moved to Ptown Id’ve definitely gone broke giving that hot slice of sin whatever barfine she asked for.
King’s Corner was off the rails with 8s and 9s. Before I even went inside I ran into an old galpal who used to work at Bada Bing. She’s in her 30s but still stupid-hot. That didn’t stop the BB bosses from canning her along with a crew of veterans who were the only real reason to go to the Bing in the first place. Talk about brain-dead stupidity. Anyway, they all relocated to the Corner, so any monger who remembers and loves those hot-ass birds from the Bing in the late 20teens, you can see them there. The clungetingent (contingent of clunge) in there is nothing short of sensational. Only Virgin remained mediocre, with a couple fuckables in each rota and nothing to write here about. Outside Patpong on Silom Road a random taxi driver said “Not see you long time.” Even the fucking taxi drivers know me. I don’t know whether to be flattered or frightened. I told him I live in Pattaya now and he said he’d be happy to drive me there anytime for 2,000b, which is a price I’d never pay.
Speaking of, the trip back to Ptown on Friday was a nightmare per usual. I thought id lucked out when I got a 150b ticket for a van and snagged the front passenger seat. But then they stuffed the vehicle with 19 people, including a poor woman in the jumpseat between me and the driver. Like live sardines trapped cheek-to-jowl in a hot, tiny death trap. I wanted to scream.
2 and a half hours later the van stopped at sukhumvit and central Pattaya road and forced all the tourists out. There was a fury of confusion as people checked Google to figure out where they were. Two blafrican American dudes just kept shouting “Beach, beach, take us to the beach!” The driver just replied “Pattaya, Pattaya.” Eventually a taxi driver ambled over and offered to drive them, and we continued on to South Pattaya Road. Minutes later, I was back in my apartment, and seconds after that I got a message from a gal on Thaifriendly. “I want customer,” she announced. “I am customer,” I replied. She agreed to swing by in an hour and just like that, I had a new Ptown conc and was back in beach mode. And yet, when she arrived, and I ran my hands over her brand-new (to me, anyway) flesh, I couldn’t help thinking back on my BK harem, and how lovely they continue to be, and how privileged I am to have green grass on both sides of this philanderer’s fence.
In other news, my ongoing feud with my Facebook feed continued last week as I removed or blocked literally thousands of posts praising Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl show. And look, I’m not anti-Latino. I’m from LA, so many of my friends growing up were illegals. I’ve been to Mexico dozens of times and used to be proficient in Spanish. But Bad Bunny’s music is objectively bad, just like every other halftime show in the history of American Football, with the exception of Prince. More importantly, why does Facebook think it needs to brainwash me into liking the show? It was fucking terrible, and another 10,000 pro-Bunny posts in my feed isn’t going to change my mind. Objectively, the song I wrote in Spanish is better than anything BB has ever produced. In case you haven’t heard my banger of a tune, you can find it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZSecwlr4Kc&list=RDJZSecwlr4Kc&start_radio=1
I did mention finding a gal on Thaifriendly, and believe it or not, she’s a 9. What I didn’t mention was the other hundred woofers who contacted me on there last week. I admire the 50something hags who shoot their shot, and would never deny them their right to try. But Holy Moses, what a collection of dregs. Still, one in a hundred is about what I’d expect from a random cross-section of the public.
For any old Members who miss my photo albums, or for anyone wanting an eyeful of redlight content, it’s been brought to my attention that the link to Members Only Content on my homepage is broken. Bear with me while I try to fix it, though fair warning—I’m internet retarded, so it might take a while.
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/ and I promise to post new stuff over there soon.
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.
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: Trump is officially compromised. He’s protecting the Epstein child rapers and eaters, is invading Iran per the PNAC plan from the year 2000, and has announced there’s aliens, which is the US govt’s biggest psy-op signaling World War 3. All that is to say, The End is closer than ever, so if you’re in some God-awful Western country waiting for the right time to visit Thailand, or if you’re in Thailand and wondering if you should pull the trigger on that new piece of ass you met in the gogo last week, the answer is the same. Go for it while you’re still breathing. We ain’t got much longer, friends. Get busy livin’.
