Greetings fellow BK Bukowskis and Bathshebas. My name’s Seven and this is my blog. Today (at time of posting) is Ozzie Osbourne’s birthday. It’s also Bangkok Seven’s birthday, and as Ozzie and I can attest, having a December birthday sucks donkey balls, because the family always combines birthday and Christmas presents. “This mountain bike was expensive, so it’s your birthday present and your Christmas present.” “We paid your college tuition. It was a lot, so it’s your birthday and Christmas presents.” ‘Your eye exam and new glasses were pricey, so the exam’s for your birthday and the glasses are for Christmas.” Happy fuckin holidays.
On the bright side, I have the whole day planned out. After posting this blog, my number 1 harem girl will arrive in naughty nurse cosplay and I’m going to watch movies, drink champagne, and smoke cigars in the nude while she cups my balls in her hands the entire time. Or, I’ll spend it the same way I’ve done the last 6 birthdays—in a gogo bar. Last year, the XXX girls got me a cake. The year before, the Black Pagoda girls got me a cake. The year before that, I was in Pattaya. The year before that the Kiss Bar girls got me a cake. The year before that I had wine in The Steakhouse Co. and the year before that the girls in Electric Blue—you guessed it—they got me a cake. This is no time to be breaking tradition.
Speaking of that span of time, in the years leading up to the lockdowns, the redlights saw a marked downturn in the number of hot women. From 2015 to 2019, this worn-out mingemonger witnessed with his own decrepit eyes the dwindling of pulchritude from a swath to a smattering. The two main causes for the shift from lovely to ugly were girls eating more fast food as American companies took root on every street corner, and apps like Tinder affording girls the ability to contact customers without the gogo middleman-mamasan. One by one, little by little, the hotties disappeared. I even posted about it on my old website, patpongnightlife.com (now inactive and reverted back to the original owner) back in 2018. The title was “Where Have All the Hotties Gone?” Years later, lesser-talented shitcunt BKK ‘bloggers’ would echo the same sentiment, though less-adeptly.
But although the aftermath of the Covid scamdemic saw a shit-ton of horrible results, with mRNA side effects, inevitable vaccine passports, and extra-governmental criminal organizations like the WEF and WHO wielding oppressive power over the entire globe topping the list, there were a couple of outcomes that were pretty awesome. One of them is, it caused a return of superhot Thai chicks to the redlight scene.
Praise Jesus, reader—the PYts have returned. From whence have they come? Who the fuck knows. But they’re back, and in nearly the same numbers as the early 20teens. And along with their hotness, a sense of euphoria, like bringing sexy back was a kind of drug. An elixir unique to itself—the hot Thai—slender, demure, sexually explosive, often beautiful or at least cute, deviant-yet-innocent, learned-yet-naïve, with long luxuriant hair and brown sugar skin. And those thigh gaps and sixpack abs, dear Lord in Heaven. They’re back, friends. Back in spades.
But it ain’t all good news. Oh, no. How could it be? In a country—nay, a continent—where women augment themselves with silicone parts, some formerly beautiful femmes are now hideous monsters, thanks to the scalpels of BKK plastic surgeons. I’ll give you one example. Back in 2018, a King’s Castle dancer named Woont modeled for my “Patpong Dangerous” art exhibition. She was an absolute vision. She was perfect—though not to her own eyes. Between then and now, she got a set of bolt-on tits (her real ones were small and delightful), puffy lips, and a fucking shnoz that’d make Modigliani turn his head and retch. During the months when she modeled for me, I tried every trick in the book to get her in my bed. But she was out of my league, or so her actions seemed to say. She looked down her cute, pert nose at me and rebuffed my advances. Last week, she Lined me out of the blue, trying to work in a short-time appointment. “Do you remember me?” I squinted at her photo—huge nose and knockers, bee-stung collogen lips—and finally figured out who she was. The she-Hyde version of the lovely lass I’d been so obsessed with just a few years prior. “Can I see you?” she asked. That’s when I blocked her. What a terrible waste of beauty. And it’s an epidemic that threatens the noses of every cute Thai. To think I traveled half way around the world to escape the gross visages of Western women, only for dozens of galpals to shove plastic up their nostrils and make themselves as ugly as Caucasians. For the love of God, Thai girls, stop doing that shit.
On Sunday, after a lazy lie-in I jetted over to OX Burger on Sathorn Soi 11 (next to Super Seoul) based on a Facebook like by my friend John—owner of Shenanigan’s and Paddy Reilly—the new gastropub on Soi 12. So it was a Sathorn twofer trip for yours truly. OX’s fridge was stocked with nasty crafties. I got a Smokin in O’Hazo Double IPA from Sudden Death Brewing Co. 8.5% and delicious, though I couldn’t decide if it was worth 435b. Ouch and double ouch. I got the OX Double Burger: two patties, cheddar, onion rings, pickles, bacon—355b and worth every satang. For those on a budget, they run a lunch special—burger-fries-soda for 289, and a Happy Hour 20% discount. The burger itself was a monster, and deeply satisfying. When a burger is made with tender-loving care, it transcends the sum of its parts, and that’s exactly what the OX did. Kudos and Bravisimo. The only downside was a table of four greasy tourists. I couldn’t make out their origin but narrowed it to Portugal, Iceland, or Finland. They were a parody of foreigner idiocy (parodiocy for short, copyright BKK7). One dude had a mohawk, a long beard, and no mustache. Just wear a shirt that says, “I’m a Scandinavian weirdo.”
Don’t get me wrong, I love the bizarre fashion choices of Eurotrash. Ever since visiting Berlin in 1988, I’ve found the wacky, Bjorkesque, nonsensical garb of Europe to be downright charming. And let’s face it, nothing’s worse than a Yankee cunt in too-tight Bermuda shorts and a backwards baseball cap. The European comic book villain motif beats “Ameroslob” every time.
From OX it was a five-minute walk to Paddy Reilly. The place is beautiful, with a lovely array of beers on tap: Elvis Juice, Punk, Hazy Jane, Mad Dog, BeerLao Dark, Kilkenny, Guiness, Tiger, Heineken. Oh and Aspall cider—all carefully-chosen with the customer in mind. I’ll come here on occasion, especially after the kitchen opens, but on the whole Soi 12 is too hi-so for me. I’m one rung above the Mama noodle class and one rung below the Soi 12 class. At time of writing, I’m the only dude in the neighborhood not wearing a collared shirt.
After a spate of cooler weather the previous week, Sunday evening sizzled. I wanted to have a smoke outside K1 but it was just too darn hot, so I ducked inside and found the only free seat at 20.20. Ten extremely fit girls in red lingerie undulated like sex sirens onstage. I’m impressed with the number of sixpack-abbed girls in the joint. Personally I can’t abide chubbiness in any form and the two times in my life when I had to, out of sheer loneliness, settle for imperfect chicks back in the US still haunt me. Thank the Lord Jesus for Thailand, and the fine-ass fillies that populate every nook and cranny of this beautiful bountiful country. The second rotation was half chunksters, half hotskinnies. Not bad for a slow Sunday night.
When Beyonce blared over the speakers followed by Lil Wayne, I glanced wonderingly toward the DJ booth and to my surprise, saw a female spinning the mp3s. Judging by her baggy t-shirt, short haircut, and the way she leered at the girls, ‘twas a lesbian.
I think I’m starting to fall for a girl in K2, and by that I mean, I’ve an urge to pull her into my orbit, creating another celestial body in the solar system that is my harem. She has what I can only describe as ‘hotness cloaking.’ She’s stunning to look at, but she moves through the space without drawing attention to herself. Coincidentally, I knew another K2 girl who could do that. Her name was Rutty and she never came back to the pole after Covid. I passed through the side door from K1 to K2, looking for my charming chameleon. Didn’t see her, of course, even though she was six meters away. She blended into the background, barely moving unless she had to. Like a sexy store mannequin. One thing she rarely does is smile. I think I’ve seen her teeth twice. The flipside of the invisible girl is the bar’s resident hottie. She’s skinny, with huge fake tits and a tattoo that spreads from neck to ass cheeks. She’s never not sitting with s customer.
When I finally made it to the K1 terrace for a stogie and a black ruskie, the Pong’d been drenched by a quick downpour that was already drying up in the heat. The night was—in a word—sultry (“Throw Momma from the Train” shoutout).
Virgin continues to crush it. I counted 10 girls I’d get with in a millisecond if I had that kind of free time, and that includes one of the barmaids who is clearly an ex-pole kitty. Everyone says the same thing as they pass by: “Sevenwadeekaa.” Another upside to Virgin is their generous cocktail pours. I asked for a Southern Comfort to pair with my mini Drew Estate Kentucky Fire Cured stick and they filled that glass the fuck up. Their 180b single pour is more than a double in the King’s’ bars.
On Monday my harem girl always shows up around 22.00 so I jetted out early for cigars and a first-time run at Astroburger—a little joint on Thaniya walking street that sells what bears little resemblance to a burger. It’s more like a semi-spherical Chinese-style bun with filling inside. I got a krapow moo and Korean BBQ pork. They were both outstanding, if not burgers. The krapow was positively delicious. They even stuck a kai dow in there. Every bite was amazing. The Korean BBQ was very nice—sliced marinated pork with kimchi and regular cabbage. I loved ‘em.
Tuesday was Loy Krathong, and my buddy Bee took the opportunity to send me some photos in her gogo bar cosplay outfit for the holiday (see this week’s slideshow—link below). On the same day, I managed to find another joint that sells Drew Estate cigars. Actually, they always have, but they closed their original location in the Anantara Siam and I thought they were gone for good. But then they popped up on Facebook in their new spot at the Skyview Hotel, and clearly went bananas ordering DE sticks. They had all three Undercrowns, Larutan, Pappy Van Winkle, three Herrera Estelis, Liga Unico Dirty Rats, and my current fave, Kentucky Fire Cured. I dropped 8k on a bag full of stogies and then popped up to their Vanilla Sky rooftop bar for an old fashioned and a Dirty Rat. ‘Twas a beautiful place to watch the sun go down (see this week’s YouTube slideshow, link below) but goddam, those drink prices! 370b++? Jeez, I guess you’re paying for the view.
Then I managed to smoke another stick before reaching home, stopping off at the K1 terrace for my usual. I enjoyed a mini-KFC whilst watching the tourist zoo, which was in full swing.
I Ponged on Wednesday and Thursday, but didn’t record any of the nights’ events for the blog. Instead, I simply enjoyed myself like a regular monger. Sorry not sorry. I’ll say this, though: All throughout the pong, both in and out the gogo, I heard the phrase “Sevenwadeekaa” a dozen times from chicks I don’t know. I’ll also say that, by Thursday, I was four days into a cold, with a nagging cough that wouldn’t abate. I tried everything to alleviate it—tea, cough drops…OK I tried two things. The only respite came when I smoked a Drew Estate Larutan with a black n smooth. The cough immediately stopped.
Friday started with a visit to Nana Plaza. Soi 4 is back to mid-20teens levels of busy, which means the Indians and Muslims are back in droves, along with African and ladyboy freelancers. It’s 2010 all over again. I already miss the queue-free 7-11s of the TBYs (travel ban years). That’s what I’m callin’ em from now on. Those bittersweet years when there were no slimy tourists about, but gogo dancers were banned from dancing and dressing scantily, because by some fucked-up logic, those two things spread Covid. How goddam retarded was every scamdemic-related decision by every govt on the planet? For fuck’s sake, I had to re-enter TLOS on a Thai repatriation flight after getting written permission from the Thai Ministry of Foreign Affars and then spent two agonizing weeks in a quarantine hotel, all for a virus that was 99.9% survivable. Never was there clearer proof that the dicks in charge—every motherfucking one of them—is completely fucking retarded. Except the Swedes—they never locked down. Although their country is currently on fire thanks to AII (aggressive Islamic immigration). So I guess their leaders are fucktards, too.
In Angelwitch, an American idiot sat stageside, whooping and hollering at the topless girl before him like he’d never seen a pair of tits before. He stuffed 20s in her panties like he was in a Reno strip joint and slapped her ass while sticking his tongue in her mouth. Good for him for having fun, but I wish him good luck explaining to his girlfriend back in Illinois how she got the clap.
Bored with the same Nana gogos every week, I peeked into Butterflies. ‘Twasn’t necessary. Two 20-girl rotations were spread over two stages and the bath tub. The rota onstage when I sat down had not a single slim girl among them. I could see hotskinnies waiting in the wings, so I followed redlight rule number 1 and didn’t leave before the rotation, which had a total of four fit girls. I necked my SML and bailed.
At Geisha, I sat next to the bubble bath, because all the other seats were taken. Holy shitballs, there were some fine naked chicks in there. Six Japanese and three bald farang surrounded the tub in a state of rapture. I doubt they ever in their lives saw anything comparable. I veritably fell in love with a tiny blonde, and by ‘fell in love’ I mean, wished I were 10 years younger. Not that she’s too young—one of my harem is 18 FFS—it’s just that said harem girl had cleaned my pipes just two hours prior, and my wang tank was empty. But bubble bath lassie was a vision nonetheless. As expected, the farang ignored the hottest girls and showered the faglies (fat uglies) with attention. Western men always sell themselves short. Although having said that, I have recently seen a dozen or so couples out around BKK consisting of a young fit American and a superhot Thai. So the alphas are definitely in-country…maybe just not huddled around a gogo bar bubble bath.
From there I sped to Cowboy to meet up with Jack Nites in Dollhouse. My favorite girl was posted up right in front of me, so I leered at her for a bit. Then in the 2nd rota, a captivating skinny petitted (petite-titted) girl with a chest tattoo stole my attention. The manager—our buddy Dennis, who is a prince among men—bought us a drink. The owner of Stumble Inn was also hanging out, since Oasis will be officially changing its name to Stumble Inn Soi Cowboy this week. Most everything will stay the same, except you’ll find a flock of fetching hostesses on hand to chat up the punters and make merry.
For a half-decade or so, a Bangkok tattoo trend has been for gogo dancers to ink their birth year across their torso. Which might’ve been a good idea when they were 18. But as we ease into the mid-2020s, that spawn stamp is less a point of pride than it is an expiration date. Rainbow had a couple of those sell-by dates on their stage, but they also had the lovely Aom and Satang. I stuffed hundies in their undies before bailing t’Pong. Per my pro tip a couple weeks back, I’d planned to do a 100b motaxi to Nana, switching bikes, and then another 100b ride to Silom, saving 50b. But the taxi dude at Cowboy actually quoted 200, which means every dickface driver before who wanted 250 was highballing me. I don’t blame them—it’s my fault for not knowing the real price.
Saturday was a hellish day for yours truly because it was “get the Christmas gifts in the mail or they won’t get there on time” time. For my bday/xmas present, my mum sent me 14k baht. It cost me 10k to purchase and ship gifts for her and my brother, so I came away with a 4k xmas-for-xmas profit. Not bad. But the day was hell. First, I hit Session in Silom Complex to buy Cuban stogies for my brother. Then I went to MBK and got a couple watches and dresses for mum. Then I saw a 5XL size t-shirt (my brother is basically a gorilla) and while purchasing it, I set my mum’s watches down on a chair and didn’t realize I’d left them there till I was already at Asoke. I had to schlep all the way back, and of course the Thai shop owner had kept them safe and sound for me (God bless the Thai people), and after picking them up, I schlepped all the way back to Asoke to mail everything out. The whole ordeal took three exhausting hours. The only upside was stopping in to Shake Shack in Centralworld. I’ll write up something about it and post it to my Substack later this week.
Later that night, I flitted out t’Pong because my buddy of mine–the dude behind GogoHopping.com–said he’d be out and about. Walking through the Night Market I saw three large mobs of tourists comprised of men and women of various ages negotiating group rates for ping pong shows. None of em looked reluctant, or as though they found it by happenstance. There was a clear ping pong intent among all three parties. Surprising, considering the gross debasement that takes place in those shows. I guess depravity crosses all demographics these days. But I shouldn’t judge. I was a deviant fucker all the way into my 40s. I only calmed down once I hit been-there-done-that status for most of the things young hetero perverts dream about. Last spring when I was back in The States, a curious buddy asked, “Have you ever had a threesome?” I tried to explain that the question’s ridiculous for anyone who’s lived in Thailand for more than a couple years. He didn’t believe me. And that kind of thinking is what’s kept so many Americans from checking out TLOS. They simply can’t believe dudes when they come home with stories of their hedonistic exploits. And to the uninitiated, they must sound like tall tales. It’s why, after a decade and a half, not a single one of my friends has visited me.
The 3 King’s were doing gangbuster business on Saturday, per usual. I was able to squeeze into K Corner and K2 for one vodka each, but only passed through K1 as there was no place to sit. Virgin sported its first trio of fat dancers, and I have to say, as long as a gogo’s slim-to-fat ratio remains 5 to 1, I support it. Lots of dudes prefer a more rotund figure, and they need something to chase, too. Personally, I’ll stick with the hotskinnies. Speaking of, more SPA (sixpack abs) girls showed up to work at Virgin. The downside of so many hot chicks—at least for them—is, competition for drinks is high. A couple of exStrip and Bada Bing girls accost me on every visit. Same with Best and Beer, though I haven’t seen them in a week. They’re lazy, and hate to compete for drinks. Maybe they went back to a bar where they’re big fish in a less hottie-populated pond.
An old Radio City girl who rebuffed my advances back in April suddenly got all up in my ball sack in Virgin. She must not have recognized me. I nodded politely and looked away, which is the international gogo sign for “go away,” which she did, but she kept stealing looks in my direction like she planned to make another run at me. That’s when Fan showed up and sat down, and the ex RC girl’s looks turned from conniving to angry. She signaled to Fan that she wanted to come over and double-team me for drinks, so I grabbed my Southern Comfort, busted out a cigar, and fled to the terrace to smoke alone.
From there I pivoted back to my usual spot on Soi 1 to watch the cunt tourists. A dude passed by with a drop-dead hot white chick on his arm. He brought her to the redlight, proving that given a long enough timeline, dudes even get tired of hotties. The flipside of that coin came five minutes later when a fat ugly farang barfined the hottest girl in K2 passed by on his way to the best two minutes of his life. The girl was nonplussed, perusing her phone while he tried to whisper sweet nothings in her ear. The experience will be just another short shitshow for her but it’ll pay for her phone bill so in the end, the redlight universe equals out.
In random news, on a motaxi ride from Nana t’Pong I noticed the neon sign at Taco Bell: “Live Mas.” An English word and a Spanish word—two languages the Thais don’t speak. Nobody at the TB corporation took a moment to think, “Hey—maybe our Thai customers won’t comprehend this sign.” By the way, I know the ad wizard who came up with that shitty slogan. We went to high school together. He was (and I’m sure still is) a total asshole. But he was just clever enough to become successful in the ad slogan market, and worked his way up to bigwig status at some famous agency. Then in 2016 he made an off-the-cuff remark that brought it all crashing down. ‘Twas something like, “Why do we have to put a black person in every single commercial?” and he was instantly out on his ass. It couldnt’ve happened to a bigger cunt.
Last week, some stupid cunt posted a shitty comment on my Twitter, and my response got me suspended for 12 hours. He accused me of being paid by Patpong to say good things about it. First of all, I don’t need to be paid to say good things about the Pong. Anyone who’s been there lately knows it’s kicking ass—like, objectively. No one can deny it. So this moron was talking out his ass. And second, Patpong ain’t the Great and Powerful Oz. There’s no one behind a curtain who could or would pay me to post stuff about it. What an imbecile. I won’t quote him because what he said was just retarded, and I think sometimes dudes shitpost hoping I’ll mention them by name in a blog. But my response—the one that got me suspended—was this: “You have the IQ of a dead turnip. No one’s ever loved you, except the neighbor who diddled you when you were five. Do the world a favor and jump off the roof of a Pattaya hotel. Everyone wants you to.” I think it was the part where I encouraged him to kill himself that got me in hot water. But let’s face it, the planet would be better-off if certain coagulated wads of vaginal discharge just ended themselves. God knows the Bangkok expat scene is rife with them.
Patpong—despite the long, slow fall from its former awesomeness—still rocks, and still has the hottest girls of the three BKK redlights. It’s not even debatable. It’s prima facie. King’s Corner and Virgin top the list. Now, I’m not saying every chick in those bars is hot. I can’t believe I have to explain this, but I actually get quips from idiots who say, “I went to that bar and there were five ugly girls.” I blame the public school system. When I was young, you never heard stupid fucking comments like that because people knew what words meant. In current year, after decades of widespread dumbing down of especially Western populations, you get a scary number of pouty spout-offs from whiney dipshits who either don’t properly read or can’t understand written English. And I’m talking about native English speakers. I’m starting to think everyone born after 1980 has brain damage.
This is for millennials and Gen Z: When I say “King’s Corner and Virgin have the highest numbers of hotties,” I’m not saying every girl in the joint is hot. I’m saying exactly what I said—nothing more, nothing less. This is how language works.
If you haven’t yet, check out my MGThai video series on my YouTube channel. It’s strictly mediocre content from a Thai expat perspective.
Artwork and photo albums from inside the gogos are available for digital download at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart at superlow prices.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Check back next Sunday for another summary of this redlight life. In the meantime, you can read more about Bangkok life on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
Photos of everything in this blog can be found in the YouTube slideshow companion for this post at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
Follow me on Twitter/X @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, and until next time fellow BK Bukowskis and Bathshebas, keep your balls warm, your beer cold, and cheers to another week above ground in the greatest country on Earth: Thailand.
Pro Tip Post-Script: Thai girls always look younger than they are…until around 35-40. Then it all catches up at once. But if you can’t tell how old your gogo dancer is, and you’re wondering if she’s 18 or 28, give her leg a squeeze. If her thigh muscles are spongy, she’s over 25. Not all gogo dancers over 25 turn spongy, but if yours is, she’s definitely pushing 30.
