What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
When I was in high school, my buddy told me this joke: three explorers get lost in the jungle and are found by a tribe of savages. They’re brought before the chief, who says, “For the crime of trespassing on our lands, you must choose: either death, or bongo-bongo.” The first explorer says, “What’s bongo-bongo?” and the chief says, “It’s where all the men in the tribe fuck you in the ass one at a time.” The first explorer says, “Well, I don’t want to die, so I’ll take bongo-bongo,” and he’s led away for his punishment. The second explorer says, ‘I don’t want to die either so I’ll also take bongo-bongo.” But the third explorer says, “I refuse to be violated in that manner. I’d rather die!” So the chief says, “Very well. You have chosen death! by bongo-bongo.”
In January of 2024, this joke is a metaphor for life in Bangkok, if you swap out “tourists” for “bongo-bongo.” I feel like my happiness is being ass-raped every time I hit the redlights these days.
In truth, I didn’t do much redlighting this week, because like last week, I felt terrible. On Monday I finally went to the pharmacist who diagnosed me with strep throat and gave me a round of antibiotics. And if you’re in the US and you’re reading this, yes. It really is that easy to get treated here. If I were in L.A., I’d have to schlep down to the doctor’s office, wait 90 minutes (hour in the waiting room followed by 30 mins in the exam room) for a doctor to take a throat culture that would then go to the lab and 24 hours later I’d get a call to go to the hospital and get a prescription for strep. And the whole thing would cost at least a couple hundred bucks, and that’s only if the insurance covered the rest. In Bangkok, I stop in for 5 minutes at the Patpong pharmacy, get diagnosed, get the meds (for $3 US) and head on to the next gogo. Fucking gotta love Thailand. I washed down the first dose with vodka, and yeah I know you’re not supposed to drink booze with antibiotics, but what can I say? I’m hard like that. I’ll do Moxy (amoxicillin) and alcohol, because I do what I want.
The night before (Sunday) I got dragged t’Pong by Jack Nites, who was doing a shoot in King’s Corner. I hung around for a bit but felt something pulling me toward other bars and so bailed to K2, where a short, old, unattractive farang was getting the VIP treatment from two barely-twenty hotskinnies. I love to see it. In his home country, even the ugly girls wouldn’t give him the time of day. Here, he’s king for as long as his holiday budget holds out. And every one-week millionaire has the opportunity to parlay their vacay into a long-term stay. If they go the route that Seven and so many other happy mongers went, they can procure a job and stay in-country. And if that job pays well enough, they can live like kings for the rest of their days. That’s my plan, at least.
In Virgin, a supersexy piece of T’n’A put the hard sell on me from the stage. Apparently she didn’t remember me from back when she worked at Radio City, where I offered her a spot in my harem and she turned her nose up at me. Between then and now, she’s turned so much yaba up her nose, she barely knows where she is, and doesn’t remember me at all. And so our sour history is wiped clean, like the compact mirror in her purse.
On Tuesday I was lured to Maison du Vin in the middle of the day by one of their FB posts. ‘Twas a photo of Les Hauts de Smith, a lesser-caliber version of Smith Haut Lafitte, my all-time favorite red from Graves (and currently running a price tag of 12k at Gourmet Market). This bottle was a mere 3 grand, so I skipped over to the wine bar like a giddy schoolgirl, ordered a plate of braised lamb pasta from Isabella, and had a culinary mindfuck of a late lunch. I posted a photo to Eat/Drink Bangkok on X, and some stupid farang clam commented, “lamb and Bordeaux, how original.” Then she said, “With all the exotic food in Bangkok, surely there are more adventurous choices.” Yeah, bitch. Those are the other 99% of meals I eat and don’t post, because I’m not a fucking tourist. The cheek of this dumb snatch. I replied that the meal cost more than her apartment, and a million other people already shared pics of their street food that day. And then I blocked the cunt.
Speaking of blocking, I had some douche comment on my Soi 6 afternoon walk video saying there weren’t enough girls in it. First of all, how am I supposed to get the girls to come stand out on the soi as I walk past at 16.00? And second, since when am I obligated to show you stuff? If there’s a group I hate more than tourists, it’s fuckers who follow my social media and somehow have it in their mind that I’m here to entertain them. I’m not providing a service, sorry-not-sorry. I don’t report news, I don’t do tours, and I don’t seek anyone’s approval. And I don’t drink with strangers. I drink alone, in a dark corner, sometimes with my hand in some dancer’s bra. I’m a redlight rat with photo access and a clever writing style. That’s all. View my content or don’t, but for God’s sake, keep your stupid cunting opinion to yourself. Otherwise, ya get blocked.
So I blocked the cunt. Thanks for letting me vent.
A day later, a dude commented on one of my X posts with one of my own photos of J, a former Kiss Bar dancer, asking after her and her current whereabouts. And because he came correct, with zero disrespect, I answered all his questions and then didn’t block him. Which I guess proves there are cool people on the interweb, and I’m not a total asshole.
On Wednesday my harem girl flaked, thank God, because I wasn’t in the mood for her. She’s what I call a splasher, because when she orgasms, she’s so lubed-up that it leaves splash marks on my sheets, and I have to launder them before the next girl comes over. It’s a whole ordeal. So I happily flounced over to the Pong for cashew chicken at Derby King followed by a casual run through the 3 King’s and a wee dram in Virgin. K1 and 2 were per usual. I’ve been hitting up those joints for so many years that hanging out in there feels as normal as sitting on my couch. The girls respond to me in three different ways: 1—flirty. Old friends and/or tip-hungry girls try to turn on the charm. 2—reverence. They bow and wai and whisper my name to each other like I’m the fucking Pope or something. 3—pretend-ignore. This is the opposite of the ‘flirt’ strategy. It’s a poor attempt at reverse psychology. They look everywhere except at me, and steal glances when they think I won’t notice. By now they’ve all heard legendary tales of the long-term harem girls who’ve amassed a small fortune by hitting Seven’s apartment on the reg for the past 5 or 10 years. To some I must look like a walking retirement plan.
King’s Corner was killing it with two rotations of 20 on a Wednesday. The mamasan hit me up for somtam, which I was happy to buy for her. Gone are the days when I’d get dinner for all the girls in a gogo. That was back when I’d darken the doors of XXX Lounge and The Strip. For nearly a year, I dropped around 15k per month on food for the girls on Soi 2. I have since ceased that nonsense.
One of the Corner dancers is a former harem girl who did a three-year stint that only ended when she got knocked up (by her Thai boyfriend, not me). She’s always very friendly but I can tell she’s trying to figure out a way to get back on the gravy train. I see the tiny wheels turning in her brain. Like a mouse in a maze.
I stayed for two Heiny’s in Virgin. None of my usual buddies were there, so I finally turned my attention to the chickie that looks like my first and only Thai ex-girlfriend. And by ‘attention’ I mean, I goosed her in the rear with one thumb as I passed the stage on my way to the loo. And apparently, she had no idea of our psychic connection due to the whole ex-gf lookalike situation. So she responded with near-terror, although when I slipped a hundy in her bra, all was forgiven.
On Friday, my harem girl showed up two hours late, shameless and smiling knowing I’ll never give her the boot. She’s just too hot. Her body is an amusement park. And during the deed, she arches her back and thrusts her hips at me in inverse rhythm to the beat of my meat. Plus afterwards, she tidies my kitchen in the nude. Hence her habit of turning up late with no compunction.
At any rate, it afforded me only enough time for a quick Ponging. I went straight to King’s 1 where a former K1 veteran who left the pole in 2019 made a hangdog return. Her real job didn’t pay enough. Earlier in the day, she made sure to message me and ask if I’d be there. What met me was a girl less-pudgy than the last time I saw her (mid-scamdemic) but nowhere near her 20teens screwing weight. The girls were all wearing masks, for some kind of theme party. We reminisced for a bit and then I popped to the terrace for a Drew Estate Java Latte and a black ruskie. A sure sign that Patpong is finding its way back to full financial strength is the return of the bottom-feeders. A middle-aged, shriveled-up old ladyboy who stormed the soi nightly like a hun before Covid was back on Friday, as was the portly mid-60s African freelancer who never skips a chance to hit me up for cash. She must be a 40+ year overstay by now. I wish the cops would deport her fat ass. Ladies selling bracelets and chachkies are also back. No, I don’t want an Ironman keychain, thanks. I’m here for the booze and the pongtang (Patpong poontang, copyright BKK7).
I coaxed a quartet of dancers into sampling the stogie. Two seemed to enjoy it, for once. The others did not. An old lady farang gave me the hungry eye while shopping for purses. I resisted the urge to throw up in my mouth. I don’t know how single white women can come to Thailand and not want to kill themselves. What goes through their minds when they realize that Thai chicks are exponentially hotter and also don’t criticize their man? At least, mine don’t. My brother back in LA is dating a typical LA girl. They’re not even in a relationship, but that hasn’t stopped her from wingeing about his clothes, haircut, choice of food, the way he chews that food, the TV shows he watches. Jesus, how does any sane man put up with that kind of horse shit?
As I sat there smoking with a trio of girls, “One Crowded Hour” by Augie March came on in my earbuds, taking me back to the weeks before I moved to Thailand. Back then, I’d habitually buy a bottle of wine and drink it while driving around the streets of Los Angeles at night. LA is interesting in that, it’s full of people who want to murder you—from crazy homeless to anti-white racists to police. But it’s so spread out that your chances of running across a killer are scant. Even more so when it comes to cops. They’re spread too thin. It’s a beautiful city to drive around at night. The lights are splendorous, and a car is like a steel sanctuary, hurtling through the landscape to a self-sating soundtrack. And “One Crowded Hour” was one shade in that aural artwork. I used to think LA was the most diverse city on Earth. Then I went to London and learned I was wrong. Then I moved to Bangkok and had the doors of my theory blown off.
King’s Corner had two rotations of 40. ‘Twas tits-and-ass overload. I got a hand cramp from returning wais. Virgin was a madhouse. I was relegated to a seat in the corner. Except for Nat, all my galpals have retreated back to the gogos they worked before Virgin opened. All I see now are acquaintances. They act like they know me but it’s just that I’m famous on this block. Everyone’s chummy but I don’t know anyone’s name. Lots of gladhanding, no substance.
I tipped my exgf doppelganger again. She was very appreciative. I can tell she doesn’t know how to react to this new wave of Seven attention. A girl who I know knows better came up to put on the hard-sell. I paid her a hundy to go away.
Saturday’s evening weather was reasonably cool for Bangkok: 30 degrees (86 for you yanks) making the motaxi ride t’Nana almost pleasant. I made a beeline for Hooter’s because even though they’re a corporate blight on the planet, they do good wings. Thought I didn’t order any. I also skipped my usual buffalo chicken tacos and went big, with a Twisted Texas Melt and a margarita. On entering, I tried to find a seat with a view of the Plaza’s entrance but also far enough away from cunting tourists that I wouldn’t throw up my food. I found a spot, and within seconds was surrounded by a party of eight Asians with American accents speaking too loudly. So I moved across to a seat next to the car park. Two minutes later, a couple of Germans sat practically on top of me. I hurried to polish off the margarita, once again putting my faith in alcohol to make the experience bearable.
I counted at least two dozen freelancers in the immediate area—the most I’ve seen since before the scamdemic. At 19.40 they were joined by a ladyboy who hit on every single dude that walked past. I guess that’s what you do if you want to increase your odds, but it can’t be easy getting rejected a hundred times per night. Freelancer customers are funny. They walk in circles around the car park making side glances at the girls. The thought process must go like this: “Do I like that one? Better check twice. Wait, does she even see me? Am I being rejected by a street whore? And does that make me want her more? Maybe I should say something. Oh shit! She looked at me. Act casual. Don’t fuck it up—aw damn, she went over to that other guy. Hang on, here’s an assertive lass. Wait…wait…goddammit she’s a ladyboy. Fuck, is that all I can hope for? I can’t go with a ladyboy…or can I?”
My first stop in nana was Angelwitch. I was greeted with a Santana tune, followed by Kiss, AC/DC, Blondie, and the Police. Even if they didn’t have girls, I’d go there just for the music. The joint was full by 20.20. Per usual, there were lots of farang couples. I don’t know how or why Angelwitch draws so many. It’s a Nanomaly (Nana anomaly, copyright BKK7).
Geisha was doing gangbusters business. A bunch of scummy-looking farang hung around the bath tub, mouths agape, clearly feeling what all Western men born before 1990 are used to—that sense of male privilege that only a gogo bar in a patriarchy can provide. You used to get it in America, but but since Millennials came of age, with their beta cuck feminism and Gen Z, which as far as I can tell are all trans, a place like Geisha, and Nana, and Bangkok, and Thailand are as foreign to these tattooed, tight shorts/Gilligan hat-wearing pantywastes as the surface of Mars. The one exception was a Blafrican American dude, clearly ex-military, who was tipping and flirting with the barmaids. He has six of them veritably swooning. Sure, they were all three sizes too big for Seven, but chubby girls need love, too. I’m just grateful for guys who’ll do it. Cuz this mofo don’t wanna.
I tried to pass by Twister without going in but Oil spotted me from the stage and threw a fit when she thought I was leaving, so I sat with her for a bit and shot the shit. She’s recovering from a minor motorbike crash. I played with her tits for a while and then bailed t’Pong. I wanted to hit Cowboy but I was just too goddam tired. On exiting the Plaza, the seats along the side of Stumble Inn were all taken up by Q-tips (what the Brits call cotton buds)—old-ass people with white hair. Why the geriatrics like to sit there is beyond me. Is it just so they can look out on the Plaza, a place they’re too old to enjoy?
My motaxi let me off on Soi Convent so I grabbed a Nitro Merlin from G’s and found a perch outside K2 with a Drew Estate Java Mint and a couple of black nyet’ros, where I ran into another local monger. I never know if he wants me to mention his name, so I’ll just say it rhymes with a certain purple Marvel villain. He’s in the family way now, with a kid and a ball-and-chain, so he doesn’t get to the redlight as often, but for old punters like us, it’s like riding a bike. You fall back into the groove without even trying.
In terms of sheer numbers of visitors, Patpong destroys Nana and Cowboy, even it it’s post-apocalyptic state (nearly a quarter of business remain shuttered post-plandemic). I suppose it’s not a fair comparison. The Pong has a Night Market, a food court, live music, three ping-pong shows, and an Irish pub in addition to eight gogos, a bunch of regular bars, and multiple ganja shops—which if the new govt has its way will be shuttered sometime soon, since they’re in the process of recriminalizing weed, the idiots.
After the Java took an inexplicable two hours to smoke, I was too hammers to go anywhere else and so taxi’d home and passed out. But when I left the Pong, the tourist bongo-bongo was dialed up to eleven. And judging by the demographics in all three redlights, Bangkok is currently experiencing an influx of dumb cunt Americans. For whatever reason, TLOS has become a trendy hotspot among the yanks of late. I’ve no idea why. I miss the days when Thailand seemed “too far away” to visit. Thank fuck my Cali friends still refuse to visit. They say they wouldn’t be able to stand the long flight. Good. Very good. Now if only we could find a way to get rid of the shitbirds who’re already here…
In other news, the former mamasan at XXX Lounge has found a venue where the girls from that bar (currently scattered across various gogos in Nana and Cowboy) can come back to roost. The catch: it’s not in Patpong. Instead, it’s a short hop-skip over to Sala Daeng, somewhere near Silom soi 2. I couldn’t get the exact location but they’re set to open on the 19th so when I figure it out the precise spot on Google Maps, I’ll let you know.
I’ve been getting murdered on social media lately with copyright claims on the goddam “free” music in Microsoft’s Pictures Legacy program, so I’ve resorted to creating my own songs using free online Ai generators. If you follow me on X, you’ve been subjected to some of them this week. I’ll be using all my own background music from now on, so Insta and TikTok will stop muting all my slideshows.
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.
A slideshow companion for this post can be viewed by scrolling down, and 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: Stop long-timing. I get it. You’re lonely. You want the girlfriend experience, if only briefly. I was the same, once upon a time. For one, I wanted to bang twice for my buck, and keeping her around till morning allowed for that. For two, I wanted to take the girl to coffee or maybe go shopping—something that ‘normal’ couples do in the West. But after 14 years, I’ve learned it’s not worth the headache. Learn to be comfortable alone. Hit the mall the next day—alone. Have a coffee on your own. Who knows? Maybe you’ll meet someone new. If you like the girl enough to long-time her, then just get her Line and have her over another next week. Maybe it’s just a personal preference, but I’m too old to be holding in my farts for an entire night and the following morning.
