What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
In his post this week, Stickman had some good things to say about Patpong—for once. For the past five years he’s told his readers not to bother with the Pong, that the Pong is terrible and will close down any day. Now, to be fair to him, he doesn’t live in Thailand. He doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on here. He gets all his info second-hand from a couple of idiots who tell him what to write. In 2019, I actually reached out to him, offering to give him the real news on Patpong because his reports were so inaccurate. I told him Patpong was actually awesome. He said, “No, it’s shit,” and more or less told me to fuck off. Last week, one of his reporters got a job doing PR for a Patpong gogo, and voila! Stickman’s tune has done a 180-degree turn. For those of you who read my stuff, congratulations. You’ve had the real scoop on the Pong all this time. To Stickman and his retarded reporters I’d like to say, welcome to the party, finally.
Speaking of the Pong, I spent all of last week there. For a couple of reasons, I didn’t get over to Nana or Cowboy. Here’s how the week shook out…
On Monday I once again had to act as a currency exchange for a gogo dancer who got paid in American dollars. The bank wouldn’t take the bills, claiming they were too old. I know a place on Soi Thaniya that’ll exchange ‘em but I might as well hang onto the cash and use it when I visit Cali in the spring. The exchanger in question works at Twister. She met me in Patpong to trade money, and after she left I popped over to Roadhouse for a caesar salad and a plate of ribs, then swooped onto Soi 1 for a cigar and a quick peek at K1 and Virgin, where I hung out with Fan for a bit. When she went to the loo, an enthusiastic newbie who didn’t know Seven tried to insinuate herself into my world. She sat next to me and gyrated like a demon-possessed Energizer Bunny, asking for a drink whilst I tried to explain to her that she chose the wrong bloke. Eventually she just sat still like a car run out of gas. I got up and left. It was embarrassing for both of us. Meanwhile the staff tried to push free beers on me, but I had urgent cigar-related business elsewhere. Virgin continues to be an absolute circus. It’s shocking how fast their popularity took hold.
An easy way to tell the difference between a tourist and a local is by their beer choices. Chang drinkers are tourists. SML drinkers are locals. Leo drinkers could go either way but it typically indicates they’ve been in country long enough to’ve evolved from Chang to Leo, which usually means they’ve spent a month on Phi Phi and now think of themselves as locals. In reality, they’re greasy, nouveau-hippie garbage. One such couple sat next to me outside K1. They were very loud, covered in new Thai-script tattoos, with an air of pomposity that said, “We’re natives.” They weren’t.
In a 30-minute span of time I watched a dude in a backpack and backwards baseball cap traipse up and down Soi 1 three times, led by a different ping pong barker each time. Finally, a Thai dude pulled him aside and said, “What you want? What you want to see? You want big stage, many lady? Beautiful girl?” He nodded. The Thai guy pointed toward one of the shittier ping pong locations, where there’d doubtless be zero beautiful girls. The farang opted to flee toward Soi 2 and Virgin. I hoped he made it.
Tuesday was Father’s Day in TLOS, and I celebrated not being a dad with a full Irish breakfast at Shenanigan’s plus a Drew Estate Pappy Van Winkle paired with a Bailey’s n coffee before skating over to Session for yet more DE sticks. They emailed earlier to say they received some Java Mints and Lattes. I got two each, plus a couple more Tabaks, then went home and ordered a bigger humidor off Lazada. Since discovering DE vendors in Bangkok, I’ve gone from smoking one or two stogies a month to one or two per day—at least, I did on Tuesday. After the breakfast Pappy, I busted out a Java Latte outside K1 that evening. A portly old Aussie passed by and said, “That’s a very big cigar you’ve got there.” I would’ve rather a hot young Thai chick said it, but whatever. A dude with his wife and three kids hovered outside K1’s door while one of the kids tried on flip-flops. Dad positioned himself to sneak glances stageward while mum was busy with the kid. Then when they went to leave, he pretended to struggle with shopping bags until wifey got bored and turned to leave. That’s when dad got his last eyeful of gogo before following his family down the soi. Goddam, what a miserable existence.
As I sat there listening to JC Mellencamp in my headphones, I looked idly across the soi and noticed the Supergirls sign was uncovered and lit up for the first time in years. I check the door. It was still locked, but the Derby King’s manager hustled out to say something was in the works and to check back in a couple days.
There’s a sweet old Thai lady that works onPong. Judging by her stature and wrinkles I’d guesstimate her age at around 150. She always stops to talk to me, but I never understand a word she says because her bottom dentures are always popped out. So she yammers away at me and I just smile and say, “Kaaaap, kap-kap.” When I finished my Java I went into K1 to pay the bill and counted no less than 10 stinking white girls. Normally I see that as misandrists trying to ruin a thing men like and deliberately stay to smack a few asses and jiggle a few tits, all while winking at the farunts (farang cunts) but right then I saw my invisible cloaked K2 girl pass through the side entrance to K2 and so I sped over there to flirt with her. And sorry-not-sorry, I won’t elaborate on my flirt strategies, because I don’t want anyone copying my moves.
Virgin was going off per usual. I realized on Tuesday that now, when I Pong, I barely have time to hit more than two gogos. It’s K1, maybe K2 or Corner, then the rest of the evening’s devoted to Virgin. Which is exactly how I used to Pong back in the 20teens. For years, rarely did I venture beyond Electric Blue and The Strip. I only started branching out after EB closed and, discovered Black Pagoda, Glamour, Superstar, Thigh Bar, Kiss, and the King’s bars. Today, all the bars in that list but the King’s have closed.
In Virgin, the twin of my old (and only) Thai girlfriend at age 18 (throwback to a previous blog) looked so astoundingly good that I almost asked for her Line. What stopped me was my daunting December calendar of harem girls. I’ve got someone penciled-in every day from now till Christmas. If I did get this new girl over, my dick’d probably only shoot out a cloud of dust.
On Thursday I drove three tables of tourists out of the Patpong beer garden with the smoke from my DE Tabak. It gave me almost as much pleasure as the harem girl who serviced me an hour before. A new K1 hostess took my drink order, which was a ‘black lassian singun,’ which translates to black russian single—to differentiate from my usual order which is a double. She returned with a BR and a Singha. Goddam newbies. I had the forethought to hit G’s for a Nitro Merlin to go, so I could turn my BR into a black nyetro. Guido mentioned he got some new beers in, so I made a mental note to check back at the weekend. Tan (Dan?), the owner of Supergirls was milling around outside the front door so I hopped over to ask when it would reopen. He said it’d happen soon, and he was in the process of finding girls to staff the place.
Two Chinese chicks sitting in the beer garden tried to snap photos of the K1 stage through the doorway. The bouncer shouted “No photo no photo!” and shined a laser pointer at the lens. The chicks were undeterred so the guy walked over and made a ‘handcuff’ pantomime to indicate he’d have them arrested. An empty threat, sure, but they vamoosed in a hurry anyway. The rest of Soi 1 was lousy with white bitches who thought they were all that and a bag of Fanta. A group of Eurotrash veritably freaked out at the sight of a cockroach that was puttering up the soi on its way to parts unknown. A legless Thai dude skated by with his begging bowl in his mouth. I went over to drop some money in it, and just when I leaned down, my cigar chose to ash and it fell all over his little stumps. As I tried to brush it away, my thumb caught the edge of his mouth bowl and sent all his change scattering over the pavement. I apologized profusely, scooping coins with one hand while wiping away ash with the other, and I knew that that moment would be cemented in my mind forever and would play back time and again for the next several years because that’s what my fucked-up brain does to me. It’s one of the lesser-awesome reasons for hitting the redlight every night. Last week a coworker accused me of being an alcoholic because I monger on the nightly. If only it were that simple. I didn’t explain it to him, but I’ll tell you now that if I don’t have a few cocktails, when I go to bed I lay there staring at the ceiling for hours while my brain replays every embarrassing or awkward moment I’ve had over the course of the last 40 years. Every misstep and faux pas. Every slipped banana peel. Every elevator fart. Every clam that turned me down. You’d think my subconscious would choose to dwell on my meager handful of successes, but no. It’s just reruns of every shitshow from my past. Remember that Thanksgiving when you were laughing and accidentally spit a bit of turkey at your cousin and then denied it? Well, remember it now, at 01.30 on a work night.
On Friday, I was all set to hit NanaP when I was struck with a bout of arthritis. My elbow felt like it was on fire. I didn’t fancy a one-armed mo’taxi ride through rush-hour traffic so I just moseyed t’Pong. Again. But as I said, lately the Pong feels like it did in the 20teens when one or two bars were so good, there was no need to hit multiple bars or venture to other RLDs. These days I’m quite happy to spend a whole evening in King’s 1 and Virgin. K2 and K Corner are just icing on the gogo cake. Speaking of K2, I sat for the length of one vodka soda and the nearly-invisible beauty I adore made eye contact from the stage. Suddenly she wasn’t invisible at all. It turns out she can de-cloak at will. I had her down for a drink and a chat. She was lovely, with a good sense of humor and pretty good English. I tried to get her Line, but she declined. It turns out she only goes with Japanese customers. But I remain resolute. I know all I need to do is get my Line ID in her phone. She’ll do the rest.
I finally got round to trying a craft beer at Pakalolo on Soi 1. The barman was more of a ganga guy than a beer guy, and coaxing a pint out of the tap proved a daunting task for him. He gave up at 4/5 of a pint. I made the mistake of ordering a 250b Thai craft lager that tasted like a skunk’s butthole. But I think once the bartenders get better at pulling, and I get better at ordering, it’ll be a more enjoyable place to visit. I told my pal Lucky about my bad beer choice, and his advice was “always go cloudy.” I’ll order an IPA next time. Speaking of Lucky, he got glassed in a Hua Hin bar last week. Six stitches. For any Americans reading this, ‘glassed’ is when a British dude hits you in the head with a beer glass and runs away. I haven’t heard of it happening in the US but apparently it’s a somewhat common thing in England.
Sitting in my usual spot with a Cuban stogie and a Chivas-rocks watching the human zoo, I saw a solo drunk female farang try to enter K1 with a full beer in her hand. The doorman steered her to a table outside and told her to finish her brewski before entering the gogo. A Singapore-ish-looking couple sat next to me on the terrace and the female proceeded to cough profusely at my cigar smoke. Fucking hell, I was there first. She saw me puffing away and sat down anyway. Fuck that Singaporean Karen right in the butthole for cough-plaining. It was her fault for sitting there in the first place. Jeezum crow.
Every time I chill outside K1, I witness dozens of idiot tourists who try to surreptitiously take photos through the doorway of King’s and the one or two dancers onstage that can be seen from the soi. Last week, a dude told his friend to pretend to be taking his photo, but angle the phone so he gets the King’s girls in the background. It was pathetic and hilarious. I included them in this week’s slideshow.
A beta cuck (160 lbs, beard, glasses, Bermuda shorts with rolled-up cuffs) sat eating a Derby King dish in the beer garden whilst stealing looks into K1. After clearing his plate, he made a beeline for the gogo. 10 minutes later, he passed by with one of those whole coconuts and a straw sticking out of it. I guess the sight of clunge for sale was too much for his vagina-like sensibilities. It was a gina-for-gina cancellation.
A Japanese guy rocked up beside me and polished off an entire joint in a matter of minutes, then lunged through the K1 door. I can’t conceive of getting high and hitting the gogo. For me, it’s already sensory overload after one vodka. What kind of fever dream must unfold after shot-gunning a stick of weed?
One of my greatest pleasures is watching female farang while they look through the door of a gogo and wrestle with the realization that 1—Thailand is a patriarchy and there’s nothing they can do about it, and 2—hot Thai ass is readily on offer to any man who wants it. It instantly informs them that they are irrelevant in this culture, and it’s one of the many reasons why I love Thailand so much.
‘Twas another long Saturday for this portly punter. I spent the morning schlepping around Sukhumvit reserving spots for hotel holiday buffets. (Westin Grande for Xmas, Sofitel for 1 January). For some reason my bank card wouldn’t process an online reservation so I went to both hotels to pay in person, which was a huge ordeal. In Sofitel, they had to call down the food and bev manager from parts unknown to handle me, and he had to go to a separate location to run it through a register. When he returned, the price was 900b more than advertised. So the very kind and helpful guy had to go back to the register to solve the mystery. It turns out they charged me for New Year’s Eve instead of New Year’s Day. In the end, the poor guy had to make four trips, but he finally got me a reservation, thank Buddha. While I was waiting, I overheard a dickhead beta cuck Karenican (Karen American) douchebag complaining that he had to wait four minutes for help at the concierge desk. There were four staff on hand. Three were helping customers, and the fourth walked a guest to the car rental kiosk. I’m not sure what the shit-cunt thought they should do for him, but of course the staff apologized profusely. I had the urge to glass him upside the head. Judging from his accent, I’d place him as a West Coaster, probably from San Francisco. That place is rife with stupid cunts.
Things at the Westin went much more smoothly. I’ve been eating their buffets for years, so all I had to do was provide my phone number and I popped up in the system. Then I scampered to Paddy Reilly on Sathorn Soi 12 to try their new ‘snacking menu.’ Full mains will be available next week but for now, they’ve got a really nice array of small plates. After a pint of Mahou (IPA from Spain), I paired a glass of house red with pork sliders (garlic aoli, red onion, sweet bbq sauce, gerkin) and breaded mushrooms. Both were just phenomenal.
‘Twas then that I found myself in the witching hours between when sensible people go home and whoremongers leave the house. 17.00 to 19.00 is a kind of hellish limbo for a punter like me. I opted to mo’taxi to G’s to sit on the terrace with a Kentucky Fire Cured cigar—but only if Guido had Southern Comfort—which he did, to my utter surprise. Google calls SoCo a ‘whiskey liqueur.’ It’s more than that. It’s as if God Himself built a distillery and, with a sweep of His hand and a concoction of elixtasy (elixir ecstasy) created a drink of pure divinity. When I get to Heaven, I fully expect this ambrosia to flow from public drinking fountains.
As an aside (and I’ve mentioned this before), some expat punters mock me for spending so much time at G’s because it’s on the gay soi. I’d call that homophobic, and I say that as a homophobe myself. Let me explain. I’m homophobic when I’m in the US, because most of my interactions with gays there have been negative. Gay friends of my girlfriends have tried to get me drunk and rape me. In Hollywood, I’ve had to fight my way out of situations where gays refused to take ‘no’ for an answer. But I’ve encountered no such problems in Thailand, where I’ve never had a negative interaction with a gay dude. They’re perfectly OK with me being straight, and they’re happy for everyone to live their best life, whatever that might be. In fact, I’ve never felt unsafe on the gay sois of Bangkok. Because gays in Bangkok are not assholes, in my experience. In fact, maybe the reason the Caligays are such assholes is because most Californians are assholes, regardless of sexuality.
From G’s I wandered back t’Pong and sat in the beer garden like a goddam tourist. I had a plate of spring rolls and a Chang from Derby King and waited with half a dozen farang rubes for the gogos to open. I’m not gonna lie—rubbing elbows with tourist riffraff is gross. Holidaymakers are a scourge. I hate them to my very marrow. A Chinese dude at a nearby table stared at me for 30 straight minutes. I wanted to break a chair over his head.
Once King’s was open, I hung out with my friend Offy, who’s looking quite fetching these days, despite putting on some weight. She’s somehow turned it into muscle–her sculpted, marble-white physiognomy is fun to manhandle. After K1 I peeked into K2 and Corner just to see which gogo pals were on the clock. K2’s invisible girl was back to being invisible–or maybe she didn’t come to work. I don’t know.
In Virgin, I was accosted again by Fan, who a decade ago was an incomparable sex goddess. Even now, she looks really good. Most tourists would call her a 10. But she’s aged out of my harem window. Still, she gets lots of looks from customers while showering me with attention, which I accept only half-heartedly. The Virgin stage continues to boggle the mind. How they can keep luring in new hot clunge is beyond me.
In other news, my part-time job as a low-key currency exchange agent for redlight workers continued on Saturday when the boss at K1 asked me to trade yet another 100-dollar bill for baht. If I had to guess why it’s happening, I’d say yankee tourists budget out their trip and exchange for baht on arrival, then toward the end of their stay they work up the courage to hit the RLD and realize they don’t have the funds for gogo fun. So they pull out their emergency reserve hundy and use it to pay their shockingly high checkbin. And that’s when Seven swoops in to save the day.
You can tell how high competition for drinks is by how aggressively gogo dancers sidle up unsummoned to random customers. It reveals a hierarchy. For example, Nat doesn’t even acknowledge customers. She’s sought-after. But some of the newbies will cautiously hone in on punters and shake their moneymaker in hopes of reeling in a short-time fish…or at least a shot of soju.
Another reason why I didn’t hit Nana or Cowboy this week is, most of my galpals in those locations got scooped-up and shipped to Pattaya for a private event hosted by Twister’s bosses. I think it was some kind of VIP holiday. My buddy Oil sent me some photos, mostly of her in a schoolgirl cosplay outfit. I’ve included them in this week’s YouTube slideshow companion (link below).
Here’s a quintessential example of the kind of mentally handicapped service one might encounter here in TLOS. Last week, I was in a coffee shop (that also served desserts). Behind the counter were two staff—one taking orders and one making them. After I ordered my green tea I went and stood at the pick-up counter. The lady making orders got waylaid by a malfunctioning whipped cream dispenser. She tinkered with it for a good five minutes while drink orders piled up, after which the thing still didn’t work. Meanwhile the order taker kept taking orders. The order maker took another 10 minutes re-tinkering, with the same failed result. Still, the order taker keeps taking orders. There must’ve been over a dozen drink orders in the queue. I gave up and bailed. That’s the kind of puzzle many people on this continent can’t think their way out of. In the West we call it ’improvising,” or “thinking outside the box.” I love Thailand and the Thai people, but sometimes it seems they get trapped in their respective boxes.
Also last week, I saw this quote on some dude’s Twitter profile: “If you think you’re the smartest person in the room, you’re probably in the wrong room.” I’m sure he meant to sound profound, or at least clever. But it makes no sense. Is he saying smart people shouldn’t carouse with idiots? Some of the finest people I know are not what I’d call ‘smart’ in a conventional sense. Not to mention 90% of the population are brain-dead retards. It’s virtually impossible to find a “right room.”
On my route to work, there’s a tiny coffee kiosk, and in that kiosk works an absolute perfect 10. Her hotness defies reality, especially given her occupation. I’ve only seen that (gorgeous chicks working mundane jobs) in two other locations: Seoul and Milan. In both cities it’s a matter of too many beautiful women and not enough supermodel jobs. When I was in Milan, I noticed that half the female population could be supermodels. It took me a few days to figure out why: there are no average-looking women in Milan. This is because for centuries, hot people have procreated with other hot people, while ugly people did the same with other ugly people. They fucked themselves into two separate gene pools. And so, everyone is either astoundingly good-looking or hideously ugly.
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/
Artwork and photo albums from inside the gogos are available for digital download at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart at super-low prices.
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: Thais don’t know that there are different types of bacon. For those who don’t travel, there’s a bacon that is native to the UK—aka back bacon—that is thick, wide, and pink. It more closely resembles American ham or Canadian bacon than what Yanks would call bacon—aka ‘streaky bacon,’ which is not pink and should be cooked until it reaches a deep red color. If you order streaky bacon in Thailand and it’s pink when it arrives at your table, send it back. The Thai cook thinks it’s the same as back bacon. He needs to fry it for a couple more minutes.
