Feliz Navidad, reader. I hope your Christmas day is going great. I’m trying to recover from yesterday’s Xmas Eve buffet at the Westin and gearing up for another one later today. Once I’ve pigged my way through this festive week I’ll blog about it, but in the meantime, please check back here every day between now and New Year’s as I’ll be posting about some ghosts of buffets past, as it were, plus some other topics I hope you’ll find entertaining whilst you wind down to the end of the year—some will get posted over on my Substack as well, so keep an eye out.
In the meantime, ‘twas another week in the redlight for this portly punter, and per usual, I spent it tossing back cocktails and grabbing tits and asses. Here’s how it shook out…
On Monday, the Night Market gained 3 food trucks (bbq, noodles, and ice cream) across from the Thigh Bar Ping Pong show (which were inexplicably gone by Saturday in a display of typical Thai impatience). King’s Castle was an oven again, because it’s 65 degrees in Bangkok and to Thais, that’s like Arctic temperatures. As I went to sit down, I noticed a full beer sitting on the table next to mine and asked the waiter if it belonged to a farang. He glanced toward the toilet and said, “Nipon.” So I sat down, confident the dude’s racism would prevent him from talking to me. The redlights are full of solo sex tourists who all decided after the pandemic to no longer postpone their Thailand bucket list trip. They’re all over the place, resembling lost puppies looking for an owner and they all think this pudgy old barfly would make a good wingman. It’s really annoying.
It was a quiet Monday in XXX Lounge, where only three girls showed up to grace the stage. The rest were likely trying out gogos in other redlights. This is common practice among the pole kitty set, who are constantly trying to find a better bar, where they can make the most money while exerting the least amount of energy. But new places require learning new protocols, making new friends, and fending off the veterans’ bullying, so I expect the XXX girls to all be back where they belong by Thursday.
While sipping a revolver on the terrace, four hip young African dudes approached and asked, “This bar have ladyboys?” Thinking they wanted to see katoeys I said, “No, if you want ladyboys you have to go…” and I pointed toward the gay quarter. “No no no no!” they said. “The bar here…girls have penis?” “Oh, nooooooo,” I replied. Still, they opted to head down the soi, so I’ve still no idea what they were after.
From there I popped up to Black Pagoda, which was rammed with customers all canoodling with girls in dark corners. Then I was faced with a dilemma—whether to exit out the front, which might mean a confrontation with the insane tub of goo that harasses me nightly onPong, or the back way through the Foodland car park which would take me past (speaking of Africans) the rotund middle-aged Rhodesian freelancer that hangs onto Paddy Field like a bloated barnacle, and who hounds me for cash at every opportunity. In the end, I opted for the latter and thankfully she was too drunk to pursue me down the soi. I stopped in to Delaney’s for a Guinness, where a solo guitarist crooned mournfully whilst strumming an acoustic. ‘Twas a momentary break from the titillating environs of the redlight.
The Thais are all breaking out their winter attire. As I was leaving Delaney’s, there was a gay dude showing off his black trench coat to a bunch of LBs. I made the mistake of asking him whether he was cold. He latched onto me like a gay octopus (gayctopus for short, copyright BKK7) and wouldn’t let go until I told him I like girls. He reacted like all gays do at that news—with indignant fury. I hurried on to Pink Panther, which was again inundated with customers and packed to the rafters with chicks. On a fucking Monday. I can’t make heads or tails of the customer flow inPong these days.
My Tuesday began early, with a trip to the bank at 11 am to receive a Western Union Chistmas cash gift from my mum in California. We use Western Union now, since 1—farang can no longer have personal PayPal accounts in Thailand and also 2—PayPal is run by leftist fascist cunts. Rather than go home, I hit Shenanigan’s for a late breakfast and to do some writing. A Tiger pint and a Magner’s later, I shifted to Sunrise to get a margarita before their 2 pm booze cutoff. The manager said, “Don’t worry, I make for you after 2.” Thank Buddha for Sunrise Silom and the lovely staff in that joint. That’s clout, I tell you what. While other customers were forced to drink Sprite, this booze hound pounded three margies on the rocks. Speaking of clout, as my readership steamrolls into double digits (and also because I’m friends with Jack Nites), I occasionally get introduced to other Bangkok social media personalities—which is a thing I fear more than cancer. Some people are socially awkward. I am socially retarded. It’s a gift, if saying and doing the wrong thing while interacting with humans can be called a gift. My only strategy for avoiding conversation with other farang is to never stay in a gogo longer than 10 minutes.
My evening started out in Delaney’s for a new thing: storytelling hour, with author JD Strange. Through a cloud of ganja smoke and betwixt sips of a Belgian IPA pretending to be a lager, I heard excerpts from the Bangkok writer’s Bangkokian pulp. A couple other guys went up and told stories, not all of them Thai-related. I hung around for an hour, enjoying their stories, before relocating to XXX where all my Monday missing galpals were back. I guess they all decided to take a day off together, which is textbook Thai gogo behavior. They maneuver in schools, like fish. What one does, they all do.
King’s Castle was in pandemonium by half 9, with two rotations of 20 girls and ¾ full of punters. Two pretty kitties came to sit with me while I gently tormented them with pussy-and-titty grabs before jetting out to Pink Panther and Bada Bing (photos available via YouTube slide show, link below) before stumbling home.
My regular Wednesday harem girl is habitually late and stays too long, so I got t’Pong late—well, late for me (21.30). Outside the Thigh Bar ping pong show, a Thai barker yelled at me, “You not on holiday. You come every day.” I nodded and hurried on to Delaney’s for their Erotic Poetry Night. Having missed most of it (they started at 20.00), I arrived in time to hear a dude read the lyrics from “88 Lines About 44 Women” by The Nails. I recited the whole thing with him under my breath. Then I popped over to Pink Panther where my PP harem girl there casually mentioned that I look like Messi, the footballer. Which is fantastic news for all farang. It means Thai girls can’t distinguish us ugly foreigners from handsome, famous ones.
In XXX Lounge, a one-week millionaire bought multiple drinks for all the girls and staff. It does my heart good to see guys spreading their wealth around the Pong. He’ll go back to his job at ASDA with great memories. That’s money well-spent.
In King’s Castle, a girl I barely recognized asked me, “Why you here so late? Usually you go home by ten-thirty.” I think I might come here too often.
I know I was onPong on Thursday but there’s nothing in my phone about it, apart from one line: “hundreds of vanillas on a crazy Thursday.” On either Thursday or Friday, I can’t remember, I had an early dinner in G’s German–cheese and olives on flatbread and bacon-wrapped shrimp. The owner busted out some Durian Schnapps for me to try. It about peeled the enamel off my teeth, but went down smoothly.
On Friday I’d planned to stay home and play video games with my harem girl, but then Jack Nites message me to say he was Ponging, so I booted the girl out the door and met him at XXX, where he snapped a few photos of some new gals. After that, we slid into Pink Panther so he could chase down a girl with whom he was meant to do a photo shoot. There were so many girls in the bar, they had to break ‘em into 3 rotations. We grabbed the last two open seats. ‘Twas an absolute madhouse. From there we wandered into King’s Corner and I was surprised to see Ning, a former Glamour girl, who had a baby during the pandemic and whose body has bounced back from pregnancy with no visible flaws. On the night, we happened to be in King’s late enough to catch their topless show. I’d forgotten that both King’s put on naughty shows well past my normal bedtime.
This week saw the return of the ‘stupid-drunk tourist,’ a sub-species of human that gets intoxicated beyond the point of self-control in the redlight. They can be identified by their inappropriate dress and inability to walk in a straight line. At half 11 a dude in sunglasses, blue blazer, and black combat boots staggered out of Bada Bing and into XXX. I didn’t follow up on how his night ended but it probably involved a ladyboy freelancer in a Silom back alley.
Christmas Eve onPong was bumping. The manager at XXX, who is German, told me that in Germany, Christmas is celebrated on the Eve rather than the day, and handed me a plate of sausage and potato salad (photos available via YouTube slideshow, link below). Which were delicious, but I struggled to fit them in my belly, due to the aforementioned buffet gorging. I forced Little Nan to climb down offstage and eat my sausage (heh heh), as she’s wasting away and needs to eat more. Every joint on Sois 1 and 2 were rammed—even Foodland. There were no open seats in Panther, the King’s’s, or French Kiss. Huge herds of people moseyed languidly up and down both Sois, including two African Muslim women in full garb with six small kids in tow—at 11 pm.
Radio City had two 5-girl rotations and a Christmas tree onstage constructed of green balloons. There’s some real talent in RC. I’m surprised they don’t see more tourist traffic. The doorman told me he had a gift for me, and to come back on New Year’s to pick it up. The last time a Pong Thai gave me a gift, it was a fire engine red knock-off Gucci fanny pack. Can’t wait to see what I’m in for this time.
After 8 cocktails, I realized I wasn’t going to get drunk on the night, because I was so full from the buffet lunch. Yet, I carried on trying. Error 99, the Thai band that performs Irish tunes, was on fire for a big crowd at Shenanigan’s. Muay Thai boxing in the Panther was loud and rowdy (lowdy for short, copyright BKK7). The overall mayhem of the night reminded me of life in the Mid-Twenty-Teens when there were so many people in the redlight that I could slip in and out of places with near invisibility. I’m famous in a 200-meter stretch of alley in Bangkok, and that tiny bit of recognition weighs on me. I’m grateful for a cacophony of people into which I can blend, even as I hate the tourists for their stupid, uncouth behavior.
Speaking of, some douche messaged me on Twitter and said, “Send me you pics…I will promote them.” He has 12 followers. You gotta admire the moxie, but bitch please.
Speaking of Twitter, this month they introduced two new features—one is awesome, the other is terrible. The awesome one is a number in the lower left corner showing the impressions for each Tweet. This tells the Tweeter how far his reach goes, and also allows him to compare his reach to others. In the Bangkok nightlife/Thai girl photo scene, nobody can touch Only Thai Girls (@onlythaigirls) whose Tweets earn impressions between 20,000 and 40,000. A distant 2nd place is yours truly, with Tweets averaging impressions in the low thousands. Nearly everyone else trails us—Nana Plaza, Soi Cowboy, even the actual bars inPong where I spend my time, and Soi 6 all fall well short of my reach. It means I’m doing something right, I suppose.
The terrible new Twitter feature is, someone at the company has tried to inject Tweets into my feed under the guise of “For You,” which I guess means, “We think this is something you’ll be interested in” and for the first time ever, members of the US Congress are in my feed. I spend an hour each day now muting dozens of unwanted Twitter profiles. FUCK YOU, Twitter. I’m NOT interested in fucking US politics or Japanese social media influencers, you CUNTS! Sorry for the tantrum. I’m just really, really annoyed.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Check back next Sunday for another summary of red-light events. In the meantime, you can read more about Bangkok life on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
Redlight videos and slide shows, including the companion for this post, can be found at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
For racier content and candid videos from inside the gogos, plus selfies and TikToks by select girls, you can join a members-only site dedicated to Patpong gogo dancers for just 5 bucks a month over at https://unlockd.me/bangkokgogodancers which is a new platform. We’ve had to start over from scratch, since the old one refused to pay out. We’ll post a mix of old content and new, so if you’re a previous member, we’ll try to give you content that’s worth signing up for again.
Follow me on Twitter @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, and until next time, 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: If by chance you’re a Bangkok whoremonger like yours truly, and you keep a harem of girls, come Christmastime they will all expect a gift in the form of cash. It’s something to bear in mind months in advance, so that you will be financially prepared to dole out money without depleting your December budget. Alternatively, you can schedule a week’s stay in Pattaya and avoid the problem completely—provided you don’t also have a harem there as well.
