What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession.
It’s been a week since members of US 3-letter agencies stood down while someone took a shot at the Presidential frontrunner. Years from now, the history books will point to that moment as the start of the country’s 2nd civil war. I have to go back to LA for Christmas and I’m already steeped in a sense of dread. My worst fear is getting nuked or sucked into combat during the 3 weeks per year I spend in that hellhole. All efforts to convince my mother to move to BKK have failed. So last week, I tried to soothe my aching soul with a bit of travel–this time to an old haunt: Phnom Penh.
The alarm went off at 04.30, and I scrambled to get out the door by 5 o’clock for my flight from Suvarnabhumi to Phnom Penh. The taxi ride was 28 minutes. The Thai Vietjet flight boarded late but still took off on time. The two dickheads next to me sat down, buckled up, and were snoring loudly within minutes. An hour and 10 minutes later, I was bouncing around in a tuk-tuk on my way to the Harmony Hotel on street 148.
The last time I visited this city was in 2012. Smart phones weren’t a thing yet. Neither was Wi-fi. If you wanted to check your email, you had to find an internet cafe, and in order to get around, you needed a fold-out paper map. I was excited to see how much had changed in the years between.
I was also a different person back then. Randy as a goat and looking to nail anything under 40 kilos. From 2011 to 2012 I made 3 PP visa runs, staying two to four days each time and bedding a different lass every night. The ladies I met were wild and feverish. They broadened my sexual horizons at the time, when I was still a bit suppressed in that Western moralistic way that afflicts millions.
Flash forward to today, and everything’s different. Rather than a sex odyssey, this trip was meant to be a chilled-out, vanilla visitor’s cultural cornucopia of food, sights, and curiosities. Don’t get me wrong, I hit the hostess bars every night. But I had no plan to barfine. This old poon hound wanted a vacation from vajay. A vajaycation for short, copyright BKK7.
The flight was 51 minutes. Phom Penh’s airport was quite streamlined. Hand over your passport, move to the pay line. $35 for a visa on arrival (the Chinese guy in front of me was charged $50). Move to the pick-up passport line, then immigration for fingerprints and photo. It took all of 10 minutes. The tuk-tuk to the river was $10. What used to be a sparse, harrowing road into town with few buildings is now a busy, tree-lined thoroughfare with nice pavement, well-pruned greenery, and working traffic lights and rife with thriving businesses. I glimpsed a few familiar landmarks, like the old market and of course the Mekong river. Back in 2012 I booked a hotel using Agoda, and when I arrived they said, “Oh, no. We don’t use Agoda.” So I had to wander around till I found a vacancy and later get a refund from Agoda. Not so this time. Everything went smoothly, except I was 3 hours too early to check in, so I strolled around the block and found a place that sold nachos. Of course I indulged, probably because I spotted a Mexican restaurant that was closed and so had it on the brain. Homemade chips, tomatoes, cheese, jalapenos, sour cream, guacamole, bacon, and beef Bolognese. Side of mayo. It wasn’t traditional, but I found it interesting, all the same. After a bottle of Angkor, a Cambodia draft, and a Hanuman Dark I began to feel the long-lost but familiar feeling that Phnom Penh provides past-prime punters like myself: that of total relaxation, and an absence of ills.
After checking in, my 3 hours of sleep the previous night caught up with me and I knocked out until 19.00. Then I took a literal walk down memory lanes, first through street 136 and then up to the night market, which was strictly made for Khmers and doubled in size from 12 years ago. Along the way I was accosted by a mangy American asking for 1 thousand riel and an African talking mostly to himself but hinting at selling me cocaine. By pure birddog instinct I found my way back to the last hostess bar I visited in 2012. ‘Twas on street 104 and called The Factory. The 18 year old I barfined out of there was long gone, replaced by a half dozen other eager beavers. I opted to sit alone rather than get rinsed.
There are exponentially more girly bars in town than there were on my last visit–I’d guestimate around 10 times more. Apparently the booty business is booming. I found it a bit overwhelming. A hundred-meter long street block with 30 bars and literally hundreds of girls all shouting in unison is a shock to the senses. I quickly figured out that I could run the gauntlet and be less-noticed if I found a group of younger guys and just followed a few steps behind them. It was like clunge camouflage. I was nearly invisible to their hungry eyes. But if I walked down a street solo, fuggetabaddit. Sexual harassment is the only way to describe it.
In the Factory, as I sipped my beer, A Khmer dude walked in with a Pomeranian that started yapping like a maniac so I necked my bottle of Anchor (not to be confused with Angkor) and bailed. The streets of PP are dark, and the outsides of the bars dimly lit. It’s hard to peruse the girls in the few steps it takes to pass by. Sadly, I realized if I were to buy a girl a drink, there was only a 50-50 chance she’d be cute.
The average beer costs $3 which if memory serves is around double the price from 12 years ago. I blame Covid for the price jump. Speaking of a price jump, I slipped into Orange Bar and for no reason I can think of, rang the bell. That earned me the awkward attention of 6 girls, a mamasan, and a security guard. Over the next 10 minutes 3 more dudes appeared to drink on my dime while a trio of girls massaged my shoulders and back.
After dropping $50 in there I sauntered back to 136. There are so goddam many bars now, and foot traffic is so low, that it’s possible to choose one where you’ll be the only customer, which is a double-edged sword. It raises your street value in the minds of the girls, but it also places pressure on a punter to pay out. Some of them have as many as 20 chicks lounging outside, similar to the Japanese clubs on Soi Thaniya in Bangkok. I unfortunately chose Femdom Bar, where all the hottest girls were already swept up and taken to a curtained-off VIP area. I was stuck with a very cordial but very chubby gal and her 40-year-old friend. After that, my memory of the evening got fuzzy. I swung through a couple places, and then found a rooftop bar with live music. I put away a few beers there, smoked a stogie, and then went to bed.
The next day I flitted over to the big market for t-shirts and a souvenir scarf for my mum, followed by a luncheon of beef amok at Kopitiam, which was amazing. Then I popped across the street to a fancy restaurant that looked out on the river to have a glass of wine and a Cuban H Upmann. The hostess said “No smoking,” so I slid next door to Pastamania and asked if I could sit out on the deck and smoke. The little hostess said yes, despite there bring “no smoking” signs everywhere. Maybe it was because I was the only customer in the whole joint. I ended up downing two glasses of vino before heading back to my room for a well-deserved nap.
Around 18.00 it started to piss down and didn’t let up till 22.00. I ventured out for some fried corn (don’t ask) and a couple beers. I noticed a place called Baccara on Google maps, and because I couldn’t believe there’d be a Bangkok style gogo in PP, I went to check it out. It was tiny, and shut. I ended up at a joint called Cross Bar because a hot skinny blonde was sat outside with the rest of the crew. When I slid into a booth and the girls all lined up for a chance at a lady drink, she was the only one who stayed outside. Of fucking course. So I ordered a Heineken and drank it alone. A mamasan came over and struck up a convo. She said that although it’s low season, they’re not feeling it as badly because of an influx of Chinese who’re keeping the whole nightlife scene afloat. I can’t corroborate but I did notice a lot more Sinos than the last time I was here. It made me hopeful that they’d trade out Thailand for Cambo. It’d make sense. Their yuan goes a lot further here. Although who’re we kidding? Once Thailand starts erecting casinos, it’ll be mobbed by Chinese–even worse than it is now.
The following day was pretty chill. I had a full English breakkie at a lovely joint called La Croisette. $13.50 plus a whopping $3 for an iced americano. Beers at 7-11 are 65 cents. In most non-girly bars you can get one for $2. But a black coffee on ice is $3. After that I took a walk through what’s now called the old market. 12 years ago it was the only wet market in this part of town. Then for shits n giggles I took a tuktuk tour of the city, mainly to kill time and take some video. It lasted about an hour and set me back $20 but I didn’t care. The day was breezy and cool, and I found the experience quite refreshing.
That evening, I was already so bored with PP nightlife that I almost didn’t leave my room. Then in a moment, I realized it was half 9 when I thought it was half 11 and said to myself, ah fuck it, and came out. The night was clear, cool, and breezy. Two tuktuk drivers offered me ganja. 6 street kids asked for a handout. I stopped in at Ostro for a steak sandwich and a glass of vino. The girls outside the hostess bars barely noticed me, except for one lovely lass who was sat at the bar next door sipping a drink. She stared me down like a cheetah eyeing an antelope. I’d just made up my mind to go sit with her upon finishing my sandwich when a goofy-looking Chinese dude sat between us, blocking my view of her. A couple of loud freelancers were sat at the same table for the 3rd night in a row. In short order, a skinny Brit in spectacles and a grey waistcoat joined them, but not before one of them marched him over to the nearest ATM and back.
After the snack, I popped across to a hostess bar called Corner 136. None of the outside girls followed me in. The decor inside was gaudy and headache-inducing. One Sino sat with a tower of beer and two very drunk girls. In the middle of the joint was a small, circular stage with one girl awkwardly gogo-dancing on it. When her solo-rotation ended, no one replaced her. I ordered a Singaporean ABC Extra Stout for $5 that tasted like the bottom of a shoe. Then I swung into a bar called Happy Man and was accosted by a crew of very attentive girls. All the bars check your dollars for counterfeits. I got the fucking cash from the fucking currency exchange at the fucking Airport, ya fucks.
As I tried to get off 136 I was snagged by a fit 19 year old named Gummy. She pulled me into a bar–I can’t remember the name–and proceeded to massage my junk with vigor. She asked me to take her back to my room. I said no, but promised I’d be back the next day to barfine her, not sure in that moment if I was lying or not. She wanted a whopping $50. Back in 2012, the going shorttime rate was $20. There’s something wrong with the universe if the price can more than double in just over a decade. There ain’t a bat’s chance in hell I’m forking over that amount for Phnom Penh poontang.
The next day I slept in, watched House of the Dragon, and downed a few beers on the patio of the hotel’s rooftop bar. At 2 pm it started to rain again, so I grabbed a brolly and strolled over to La Croisette again. Their menu is so fantastic, if I stayed for a week and went there every day, I wouldn’t get through it. This time, I opted for the crab cakes and garlic shrimp, paired with a pinot gris. The shrimp was light and succulent, with whole garlic sliced thin and seared, plus crushed garlic and chilis in olive oil. The crab cakes were a revelation. Drizzled with chili paste, resting on a bed of Khmer somtam. Absolute perfection. Then I had an old fashioned and lit up a Romeo Y Julieta. For the tapas, wine, and cocktail: $32 (1,000b). The best thing about PP hands down is the food. All these decades later, the influence of French colonialism on the culinary culture endures. If I lived here, I’d be fat as a blimp and would never get laid. The hardest aspect of being here is witnessing the huge class disparity. I’m munching on crab cakes while sipping French wine, meanwhile two shirtless, barefoot kids walk past hoping to panhandle enough for a cup of instant noodles.
Two dour-looking young white chicks walked by with their Khmer tour guide. They sat down briefly while the guide chatted to the wait staff, then departed whilst casting dagger eyes at me. I assumed they must be missionaries. Millennial and Gen Z evangelicals who come to SE Asia are strictly here to rescue local women from the redlight. They make no effort to hide their hatred for men, and their fervent hope that we all burn in hell. I call it feminalvation (feminist salvation). I assume their plan is to get to heaven and overthrow God’s patriarchy by booting Him out, or maybe just nagging Him until He leaves of His own volition.
That evening, I had Gummy over for a shorttime session. She was attentive, enthusiastic, laughed easily, showed no inhibition, and was an all-around fun coital companion. What she lacked in experience she made up for with gusto. Plus, she let me talk her down to $30. Afterward, she wanted me to go back to her bar and drink with her friends. I told her I was too old and tired, but that’s not the real reason I didn’t follow her back. I just couldn’t be arsed.
On my final day in PP I was back in La Croisette for lunch: prosciutto and rocket with shaved parmesan and a glass of montepulciano. The flavors were rustic and pronounced, and when I added a bit of olive oil, the taste took me back to a seaside afternoon in Sicily in the late 200s. I followed that with another afternoon nap and then a last look at the hostess bars. My buddy Jim, former Electric Blue boss and man-about-Asia, recommended Ponytails on Street 130. I hung with Ann, the owner, for a bit and helped her set up an X account for her bar. Then I popped across to a joint called New Barbados and dropped $60 by ringing the bell–again. ‘Twas massages and offers of sex all around. I was justifiably attacked from all sides and the only hot girl among them couldn’t get at me because she was blocked by half a dozen 5s all groping for my withered junk. One girl kept grabbing my hand and putting it on one of her tits. And it wasn’t a good tit. It was one of those half-sagging little titties that, when you see it, makes you tilt your head slightly and say “awww.” Then a gal stuck out her hand like she wanted a tip, so I read her palm instead. She freaked out and told everyone I was spot-on, which led to me reading every other chick’s palm. As soon as I saw an opening, I bailed. And that was the end of my PP Odyssey.
The flight back was pure hell. There was a four-year-old retarded Chinese boy who ran up and down the aisle screaming the entire time. And for some inexplicable reason, they had the air-con turned off during boarding. I had a window seat and a precious Cambodian couple were already sat in my way. He wore black jeans and a long-sleeve black and gold silk shirt, plus so much patchouli oil I could barely breathe. I sneezed and coughed the whole way back to BKK.
The lines at Immigration were horrendous but it goes fast if you’re not an idiot. Per example, the queue at the far end has two officers instead of one. The brainless hordes don’t pay attention to details like that. I zipped through like a knife in mildly-refrigerated butter. I was back home by 1 pm and trying out a new conc by 19.00. Speaking of, I’ve mentioned in recent separate posts that 1–I’ve culled my harem from six to four and I’m no longer interested in chasing new tail and 2–I’m keenly interested in chasing new tail. It’s true that the grass is always greener, and I’ve been trying to figure out what kind of coital life I want in retirement–whether to whittle down my team to just a few and be content, or remain open to variety, which is the spice of life. I proudly declared my wild oats finally sown a couple weeks ago, only to find that they weren’t. It’s still fun to chase down a gazelle in the wild and sink my teeth into her hind quarters. In redlight terms, that means getting her Line and offering my apartment as a shorttime playdate location. And so lately, I’ve auditioned a couple of concalternates. Not to expand my harem portfolio, or whoretfolio for short. I’m just looking for one or two once-in-a-whiles to break up the quadrogamy. The one who visited on the night of my return from PP was one of those hopefuls. Sadly, she didn’t make the cut.
I’ve posted a slideshow companion for this post over at YouTube. You can watch it here: https://youtu.be/0_DPQ0BFYa0
Quick off topic comment: in my short visit to Phnom Penh, I saw 4 Shelby Cobra Mustangs. Not just Mustangs, but Shelby Cobras. I’m not sure why Khmers have such a hard-on for these cars, but since I’ve owned two of them at separate times in my youth, it was pretty cool to look up from a steak sandwich and see one rumble past.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is Part 2 of a massive gallery of XXX Lounge photos from 2022. You can view it here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-xxx-lounge-2022-part-2/
but only if you become a Member. The price tag is $1 per month, and new content is added weekly. I’m too dumb to figure out how to link the weekly posts to a single button on my website, so I post the links on my social every Friday, and provide a summary of all posts at the end of each month. Sorry for the inconvenience.
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/
Slideshows from previous blogs 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:
@bar_thigh
@BangkokNightli2
Thai chick-related artwork can be purchased at
https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
And until next time fellow BK 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: There are half a dozen Facebook pages that feature hidden cam footage of redlight areas in BKK and Pattaya. I think it’s the same cunt running all of them because the style is exactly the same. If you’re a monger, beware of a dude just standing still on walking street or Sukhumvit, doing nothing. If you see someone with a bum bag or a satchel, facing a crowd of freelancers, making no sudden moves, looking guilty or trying not to look guilty, cover your face. Because he has no problem plastering you and your ladyboy barfine all over social media. He also sits in Big Dogs on soi 4, aiming his spycam at the hookers across the street. Hopefully someone will catch him soon, and beat him to death. It’s what the creep deserves.
