What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
At time of posting, it feels like New Year’s was ages ago, but it was only last Sunday, and I spent mine the same as innumerable previous ones (well, not innumerable—I just don’t feel like numerating or ruminating, numeruminating for short, copyright BKK7): in a Patpong gogo.
The party got started in Silom in the late afternoon with a Drew Estate Tabak cigar, a Nitro Merlin Milk Stout, and a chocolate lolly. ‘Twas a chocoverload. A chocoverdose. A veritable chocostraviganza.
On the 31st, the vibe in the Pong was weirdly hostile, thanks to the oddball collection of tourists all trying to make the night memorable. There were lots of early barfines by Japanese and Chinese dudes who wanted someone to take club-hopping and then snog at midnight. K2 was shut, and all their girls shoved into K1. K Corner had two rotations of 15 and no empty seats by 22.00. Several newhotskinnies adorned the stage—a reminder of why the 3 King’s kick all other asses. Three K Corner veterans—girls who I sat outside and drank with all during the Covid tourist ban—gave me dirty looks like I was somehow doing them wrong by not buying them drinks. They must’ve been hard-up for customer attention, otherwise they’d barely even glance in my direction. In King’s 1, a Japanese girl barfined a gogo dancer. ‘Twas a wild thing to witness. She didn’t speak Thai, and it was hard to discern whether the dancer understood what she’d gotten herself into. A monger like me can spot the hungry-eye, even when it’s from a girl at another girl. In a way, it was a sweet thing to watch. The tourist seemed to be embracing her true self as the moments unfolded. I didn’t stick around to see their exit. I only hope the result was a happy one for both.
My invisible K2 girl found her way to me and sat for the duration of two sojus. Our relationship has developed to the point where I can play with her naughty bits in the bar and she endures it with fake protestation. I don’t yet feel comfortable getting her Line. Our détente hasn’t shown signs of progressing past in-bar banter. I knew I wanted to spend the countdown to midnight in Virgin, so I gave her one last tit squeeze and bailed.
Virgin had a whopping four rotations of 15 girls each. The place was utter chaos. Best came over to ask for a NY drink, which I provided. I gently smacked her ass a few times and then she ran off. A trio of Americans took an hour to work out barfines for two of the. The odd man out looked like he might cry. Virgin now has four gaiters (gay waiters) and one gaymasan. Watching them molest the tourists is a riot, but it ain’t worth the trouble of having them around. A female mamasan insisted on buying me a drink for New Year’s. I protested but she wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. I felt bad for accepting, since these folks make a tiny fraction of my salary. Then she went further and paid my whole checkbin—three beers and a ladydrink. She said, “You come every day, every day. I want to pay for you for Happy New Year, ka.” I was utterly floored.
At 23.45, A farang came in with a white purse, painted nails, and full make-up, but other than that looked reasonably hetero, meaning his clothes and haircut were straight-looking. Id’ve assumed he was gay, but he had two hotskinnies over for drinks and flirted with them for a bit. He played with their tits for a few minutes, then paid and left, just before midnight. Maybe his entry to Virgin was accidental. After all, the gay end of the soi is just a few hundred meters further on.
When the clock struck 12, Virgin went bananas. Fan, Nat, and Best all ran over for hugs and kisses, and 50 people let loose with silly string. I’ve spent the last 8 out of 9 December 31s in a Patpong gogo, and I have to say, I can’t think of any place I’d rather be to ring in the New Year. You can see what you missed by watching the video slideshow at the bottom of this post.
On 1 January, I had the lunch buffet at Sofitel Sukhumvit and it was dreamlike. I’ve posted a review over on my Substack. The rest of the week was spent at home, as I felt like total ass. I only had the energy to venture out on Friday. After a harrowing Bolt ride to Nana that broke every traffic law on the books, I shuffled into a packed Angelwitch, whose roster had half a dozen new girls. Business must be good if they’re attracting fresh flesh. Fittingly, the DJ pumped “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet” by Bachman-Turner Overdrive, followed by Metallica. A farang couple and a trio of Chinese girls added some spice to the crowd, especially when the lesbian show started. I chatted with Joey D for a bit and then for no particular reason decided to check out some bars I’d normally never visit, starting with Essence. A bunch of old XXX Lounge girls work in there. In fact, the mamasan came over to tell me it was Beer’s night off but she’d be back on Sunday. Last I’d heard, she was working at Virgin. But it makes sense that she’d gravitate back to the Ex-XXXers. One of them yelled at me from the stage, “Seven, where have you been?” I made a circle with my finger above my head to indicate “Everywhere but here.” There was one girl onstage who I’d never seen before. She was a talk drink of water with a fantass (fantastic ass), long luxuriant hair, big bouncy fake tits, and a thigh tattoo that almost woke up my wang. I stuffed a hundy down the front of her daisy dukes and gave them dirty pillows a jiggle. Despite two skinnies onstage, I’d clearly come in during the chunky rotation, so I resisted the urge to neck and bail, and waited for the slimtation. Imagine my surprise when rota two turned out to be even chunkier. Then I made my escape. But I stand by my number 1 rule to stay for the rotation. Because you never know.
I tried going to Tycoon but it was very crowded and the only open seat was in the back next to the DJ booth. A cunt tourist sat sideways, blocking the aisle to the seat so I tried walking up on the DK booth side. The hostess grabbed my arm and shouted “No!” so I turned around and exited. On the 3rd floor, the old short-time hotel is now a new gogo bar called “Bun Bun Bunny2.” They’ve got 165b Asahi on the menu, which is nice, and 30% of the team are skinny. Those are the pluses. A big minus is, the seats are nowhere near the stage. I felt like I needed a pair of fancy opera box binoculars to see the girls. And I was ready to write off BunBun2 as a bust, but then the rotation happened, and four sex goddesses stepped onto the stage. Unfortunately I had other bars to hit, so I made a mental note to come back to BunBun2 and play with the parts of a particularly pulchritudinous princes in black lingerie.
Not only was there no place to sit in Geisha, there was no place to stand. A crowd of bath tub onlookers blocked the path to the loo. I turned around and left. For shits-n-gigs I swung into BunBun1, the other short-time hotel-turned gogo. The girls weren’t as hot as the quartet in BunBun2 but they had a couple of decent ones. Plus, some of the Bun1 girls got their tits out.
As I left Bun1, I thought about how nothing makes me miss Patpong like trawling rando Nana bars. Pong girls are exponentially hotter across the board. Plus I have the added perk of being treated like royalty, as opposed to just some rando tourist.
Three minutes later, I was proven wrong.
As I descended the stairs, intending to exit Nana, I inexplicably pivoted into Red Dragon. Holy Hell in a handbasket, what a lineup they’ve got in there now. I remember it being hotsville on my last visit a few months ago. Things have only gotten hotter since then. You wouldn’t know it from their social media. After a quick glance at the 15 most recent Facebook posts, only four had hot girls in them. But that’s not necessarily the fault of their PR team. For some reason, Nana dancers have as a group suddenly turned shy about having their photo taken and posted to the interweb. It’s affecting every gogo in the Plaza. Thank Buddha for brazen Patpong girls. “Shy” ain’t even in their lexicon. But I digress.
There was so much hot clunge in RD that my brain actually shut down for a minute. They should just rename the bar “Hot Clunge.” Flying in the face of logic, a smoking hot piece insinuated herself into my world and asked for a drink. She was already smashed, which likely explained why she chose me. The last time this old turd got attention from hot clam was back in 2016. She put her body on me like a cat in heat. I didn’t complain. We exchanged names. She said she was 25, from Khon Kaen. I thoroughly enjoyed her company, and when she offered to fuck me in the men’s toilet (obviously she was joking) I actually considered it for 10 seconds before bailing to Cowboy. In sum, though, the overall vibe in Nana was bedlam, with wayyyyyy too many foreigners.
Dollhouse was packed. Dennis, the manager, was busy putting out fires. A random Chinese douchebag whined about his checkbin and someone puked on the stairs. But as far as I’m concerned, these are signs of success. You want dudes to party so hard they wretch on the stairs. It’s an inconvenience, but it means cash is getting slung around. The silver lining in the spew, so to speak. 100b Chang drafts.
Rainbow was only around half-full, oddly, but the party was in full swing and the girls were in good spirits. I spotted some new faces—at least, they were new to me. And some very hot hard bodies. In a world bereft of perfect 10s, I counted three on Rainbow’s stage. That’s nothing to sneeze at. 165b SMLs.
Speaking of 10s, the days of walking into a Thailand gogo and finding a ton of perfect chickies ended in the early 20teens. Many factors contributed to this tragedy. Tinder, for one. Chinese recruiting to Hong Kong and Macau, for two. And the influx of American fast food turned a generation of hot skinnies into fat pigs, for three. In 2024, a thigh gap—something you’d see by the dozens 10 years ago—is a rarity now. It’s a damn shame. Thai women are so naturally beautiful. If only KFC and Burger King didn’t exist.
But thankfully, hotties are reappearing in the gogos like animals long-thought extinct emerging in their natural habitats again. They’re still few and far between, but I’m not going to winge. I’m just excited to see them again.
Saturday began with a Drew Estate Fat Bottom Betty and a double black russian outside K2, because the K1 seats were too close to the completely-full beer garden, with little kids who didn’t deserve to be subjected to fat clouds of cigar smoke. Instead, I annoyed the off-duty dancers outside K2 who were trying to eat their chicken and sticky rice. I paid them 20b each for the inconvenience, which I think was fair. As I sat smoking, watching the human zoo shuffle past, a farang dude walked by with a stunning blonde in a green mini-dress. As I turned to check out her ass, I spied a dark wet stain running down the length of her crack. No doubt she got it while sitting in the beer garden, sweating like a tourist. ‘Twas a reminder that we’re all human, and even the most gorgeous Euroclam suffers in the Bangkok heat.
Then I swung into K1 to take in the sweet clunge on display. Offy immediately accosted me, bogarting all my time and attention. Though one great thing about gogo dancers is, you can have one hand in their bra whilst also openly ogling every other girl in the joint. And the K1 stage is a feast for the eyes.
In K2, half a dozen girls wai’d and said, “Sevenwadika.” I had no idea who they were. Either girls are telling each other about me, or I’m getting senile in my old age.
Virgin was nearly empty when I stopped in at 22.00. Empty of customers, I mean. The stage was packed with poontang. I chalked it up to it being Saturday, when the Pong doesn’t really come to life till around midnight. Lots of familiar faces dotted the stage but there was only one I’d call a galpal, and that was Nat. I always greet her the same way. I walk past like I don’t notice her, and just as we’re shoulder to shoulder, I reach up and grab a tit. She never complains or flinches, God bless her.
In other news, this week I got a bunch of messages from current and former gogo bar staff, all asking me to fund their new business venture. How and where and why they got the idea that I have any money is beyond me, but they all said the same thing: “Seven, which bar gogo you own?” None. “What? No, you are bar gogo owner in Patpong, right?” Nope. I’m just a drunk. “Oh, well, you want to buy a bar gogo and I will manage it?” Fuck no. “We can meet sometime this week and talk about it.” I said no, fucker. I don’t have any money. “But, you drink every day every day for many years. You rich.” No. I have just enough money to pay my rent and drink in the redlight. I don’t have any extra money. “Oh.” I had that exact conversation five times last week.
My foray into creating AI Thai girls using text to image platforms continues. I’m fascinated by this new kind of simulacra. There’s definitely a market for computer-generated chickies in an as-yet unbuilt VR world where we will all eventually live, with our bodies stuck in pods and our minds trapped in that Matrix. And when that happens, I plan to be surrounded by a virtual harem of my own making. So sorry-not-sorry for all the AI vagina in my feed lately.
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 Bangkok-related stuff 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.
Slideshows from previous blogs going back several years can be found 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: In the US, one strategy for getting the hot girl in the club is to hit on her ugly friend first. This plays on the hottie’s insecurities and gets her all frothy for the dude that didn’t look her way. In Thailand, it’s the opposite. If you skip the hot chick in favor of a fugly, the former will be enraged that you didn’t choose her, and write you off completely. So the rule in TLOS is, always go for the best-looking lass in the room.
