What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. Pattaya is not Bangkok. I’m sure that’s obvious to everyone reading this, but I’m learning how different they are in ways I never considered before, and those differences might surprise you.
For one thing, there’s less of a need to carry weapons here. Not that there was much of one in BK, though as a redlight blogger I amassed a small contingent of disgruntled cunts (disgrunts for short) who would do me harm if the chance arose. And so I never left the house without something to slip between someone’s ribs. Pattaya, though on the surface might seem rougher, is actually quite tame compared to some of the darker back-alleys of Bangkok. You’re less likely to have trouble with eight Indians, no matter how obnoxious they might come off. That said, I do think there’s a greater chance of me personally getting into a bind here, because of the strong urges for violence that bubble beneath my surface at the sight of certain tourists…and locals. I have to physically will myself not to bash some people in the face. But that’s an act of aggression, and the non-lethals are for defense. Maybe I don’t need them anymore.
One similarity between the two towns though is…most people who works in a bar are on edge. I think it’s because of the uncertainty of the business. You never know when the economy will take a bad turn, or a Thai owner will make a stupid decision, or a farang boss will call it quits. There’s no security for dudes who run bars. If a foreigner manages to stick with a place for more than a few years, that’s a lifetime in the redlight. In the last decade, several bosses have asked if I’d like to take a crack at manning a bar or a gogo, and I’ve always turned them down—first, because I’m an idiot and couldn’t run a lemonade stand. And second, because of the uncertainty of it all. I need something more mundane, more stable. I can’t take that kind of adventure.
Sunday I started out with dinner at Trattoria Toscana and duck truffle ravioli. Twas a cloudy, balmy evening and I sat outside despite the portent of rain, because I’d hoped to smoke a Cuban before running the gauntlet of Soi 6. Although Bangkok is the most visited city on Earth, you don’t often get the feeling you’re surrounded by tourists, unless you deliberately go where they are. Most of the city, though, is devoid of outsiders. Not so in Ptown. Living here is like living inside Disneyland. All you want is to eat your candy floss in peace, but a screaming crowd of assholes keeps roaring by on a roller-coaster. The trick, I’m learning, is to remain very still and act as though the chaos is just par for the course. That way, you blend into the mayhem and become invisible to those tremulous noobs who barrel through town like they’re having a seizure.
Halfway through my bruschetta and pinot grigio, a farang dude walked up from the street and asked for money. I wanted to kick him in the throat. Any Thai who asks can have a handout, but goddam cunting farang beggars can get fucked. And look, I know sometimes life throws you a curveball and you wind up in a bad situation. But there’s an inordinate number of farats (farang twats) who get themselves in trouble in TLOS. It’s as though they come here, don’t want to leave, overstay their budget, and then can’t get home and can’t go on living the Thai holiday dream. So they freeload off the responsible people who didn’t fuck up their lives. They’re lampreys on we, the sharks of Thailand.
Just then, it started to rain so I had to move under a covering, though still outside so the hope of a cigar remained. The ravioli was decadent and, when paired with an Italian claret, borderline immoral. Every bite felt like an affront against The Church. I had to keep reminding myself that food is not adulterous. Besides, who’m I cheating on? Pad krapow?
The rain stopped, so I told the waitress I would move back out to smoke. “You can smoke here,” she said. “I have a cigar,” I replied. She nodded and went to wipe down the table. I asked for the wine menu so I could order my favorite beverage to pair with a Cuban, which is port. They had one on the list, but above that was something called vin santo, a Tuscan aperitif with the characteristics of brandy and port combined. If I’m honest, Id’ve preferred the robust panache of a Porto, but life is meant to be lived, and apart from poofters, ladyboys, and fatties, one should try to try everything. Plus I like the idea of being one of those silent, black-clad fellows who sit in corners with a little bit of tobacco and a tiny glass of mysterious elixir like Michael Corleone in the mountains of Sicily.
While lounging at the edge of the Beach Road I witnessed a farang couple fighting. They came from the direction of Soi 6 so I can imagine what happened. The dude got grabbed by a dozen chicks causing the ball-n-chain to realize she’s is completely superfluous, and her blind rage took over. Foreign women should never come to Thailand. They’re as useful here as a fish with a bicycle.
After I’d polished off the vin santo, I still had half a stogie left and so ordered a glass of port. For those keeping count, that’s 4 glasses of vino just at dinner (1670 all in for a meal that mocked the gods). I wondered if I’d have the stamina to face The 6. But I maintain that, in the wars a monger must fight, he can never let booze or slags win. Not coincidentally, both drunken stupor and post-orgasm feel like a little death. And it is the responsibility of all men to walk as close to that line of mortality as possible, until the real thing comes for us. Because it will. It is the only moment of true honesty in this life, so anyone who toys with it, who dances with it, who stares at it unblinking, is truly living. For me personally, it’s the only remedy for the murderous desires that occasionally consume me. And just as I typed these words into my phone, The Killers crooned a cover of a U2 song in my headphones. “The day is as dark as the night is long….I’m in the black, can’t see or be seen.” I will move through the redlight unseen. I’m the ghost of a man with promise, who now drinks and smokes and fucks in defiance of fate, in open rebellion against the inevitable. I finished my port and lumbered to The 6.
In my intoxicated state, I 1—walked more slowly, allowing me to better peruse the clunge, and 2—had lowered discernment. I found a 19 yo tall skinny blonde butterface and bought her a drink just as it began to piss down. ‘Twas a deluge that had me trapped with her for what felt like an eternity. When it finally slowed, I retreated toward the Beach Road. My galpal Tan shouted my name as I passed her bar, so I stopped in to buy her a drink and tickle her minge. I asked why she hadn’t been by my place yet. She blamed three days of rain. An incredible brown-skinned lass stood at the counter with her gorgeous back to me, and for a moment I thought there’d be a difficult love triangle to contend with in there, but then she turned around. I love a butterface but there are some even I can’t abide. She looked like famed actor Danny Trejo. I had to take a hard pass.
After that, I walked the soi down to the end, but the rain was relentless and I couldn’t focus on the poontang, so I ended up on a baht bus that I bailed on at soi 8 because I was curious where the freelancers go when it rains. It turns out they disappear for the most part. A few of them took shelter near 7-11s but the party is definitely over for the night. A scantful (scant handful) stayed put under umbrellas. I pulled up for a SML to watch the wet world go by. It was mostly farang wearing too much cologne, and dudes who thought their workout routine made them better-looking than they are, walking shirtless in the storm. I secretly prayed for a bolt of lightning to cook one of them like a pig on a stake.
Weekdays are a battle in Ptown. There’s never anything important enough to put on shoes for. The laundry can wait. The package from Lazada isn’t going anywhere. Just getting off the bed is like pulling teeth. A new routine (newtine) of mine is to wait till I’m ravenously hungry, which is usually around 16.30, then set out walking, trusting the universe to take me somewhere good. The problem is, now that I can walk for 90 minutes in one go, I end up trapsing 3/4 of the Beach Road and then just picking a place at random. You’d think a town like this would have numerous beachside rooftop bars, but no. Serenotel on Soi 10 has one. There’s a place called Virgin on Soi 4. And the Hilton, and the Holiday Inn, and that’s about it. On Monday, I flitted over to Beertique, hoping to have a smoke and some solitude. I ordered a glass of milk stout, lit up a Drew Estate Nasty Fritas, and took a chair facing the beach. Within minutes, the gray sky turned black, and when the rain swept in, I barely got my beer and stogie moved under the roof before the squall hit.
The next few hours became a game of waiting for the rain to slow, setting off down the road until the rain got too heavy again, then popping into a bar, asking if I can finish my cigar there, being told no, then coaxing that no into a yes. After a few random pints down the Beach Boad, it started to pour again, so I gave up and went home.
One night in between downpours I schlepped over to Witherspoons for their tacos. It’s usually a bad idea to eat Mexican in a British-style joint, especially when the menu says “Tex Mex.” There’s only one place in the world where you can get Tex-Mex, and that’s in American towns along the Texas-Mexico border. It doesn’t exist anywhere else. I’ll post a review to my Substack next week. After dinner, as I departed Witherspoons, I was stopped in the street by a pudgy middle-aged Thai woman. “Seven! You forget me, I used to work in Patpong.” I assured her that I did remember her, though I had no recollection at all. She said she worked at a place called Foxy Bar around the corner. I said I’d come in and see her, which was a bald-faced lie. Then I wandered down to hang with Jersey Dan and to teach the staff in one bar how to make a black russian. “You want I put Coke in there?” Jesus. No, honey. Never, never, ever. They charged for two well shots, which was still cheaper than anywhere in BKK.
Afterward I walked around LK not feeling anything and then swung into Crystal for a 95b vodka soda. There was one hottie in the first rotation. I stayed for the 2nd rota as is one’s duty but they were all chubs. I continued walking down Buakhao and as it rained harder, I stopped into Play Girlz for 139b bogo cocktails. Most of both rotas were sat with customers so there wasn’t much to watch. Of the punters who sat with no ladies, it was me and a gang of Indians. Then I walked home, perusing the clunge in the bars as they got rougher and rougher the further I walked from LK.
On a midweek morning walk, again down Walking Street at 7 am, I stumbled upon a cluster of clubs and bars that were still open, still playing music, and still rammed with partiers. They were Thai spots, so the DJ played Thai tunes and 90% of the clientele were Thai, with some stalwart farang holding their own. It was crazy to see the festivities still going full bore at almost 8 in the morning, with kids starting school a few hundred yards away. In Bangkok, at least they have the sense to go to bed at some point.
I’ve stopped keeping track of what day it is, aside from a weekly alarm reminding me to post this blog. Every other day blurs together. On what I think was Wednesday, a wannabe conc came over for her 2nd and last bj. She failed the audition, poor girl. She was eager enough, texting me every day. But after two tries, I knew she wasn’t harem material. For one thing, she bent my wang the wrong way. I have a curve, like the Nike swoosh, and when she went down on it, the pulled it the opposite way of the swoosh. I could’ve instructed her, but there were other problems. She thinks, when a man finishes, it’s one big splash and that’s it. But men, you know, it ain’t that cut and dried. I’ve timed my orgasms, and they last on average 29 to 34 seconds. This chick thought her job was over after the first flourish. I’d no choice but to cut her loose.
That evening, I had dinner at The Roof diner and bar on Walking Street, just after sundown. It’s a pretty lo-so joint, and I was the lone customer. It made for a lovely few moments of peace with a beautiful view. I got a plate of kow pad kung which was surprisingly good and a Sapporo draft, then wandered the soi, as it was too early to gogo, having a drink here and there. One spot near the south end served b ruskies so I ordered one. I don’t know what they brought me but it wasn’t a b ruskie. It was huge, and came in a plastic container like an iced coffee. I think it even had coffee in it. Then I hit three gogos, but I didn’t write them down in my phone so I don’t remember which ones. Afterward, it was still early so I go the baht bus heading to Soi 6, but I bailed at LK because it’s easier to walk home from there. I ended up finding Jersey Dan again, and we had a drink. I told him I’m having trouble getting a handle on this Ptown life, and something resembling a routine. He advised me to abandon all hope of a routine, and instead to control the chaos. Or better yet, make my own and then live in it. To be the arbiter of my own clusterfuck. So that’s what I will strive to do.
From there I wandered down Buakhao and found a bar where there are no hot chicks but where I know the boss. Inside, I proceeded to get hammered while chatting him up about life in the gogo zone. Then, I wandered all the way home in a light, cool rain and passed out.
Having said all that about not keeping track of days, Thursday is my favorite day to go out. It’s I think the quietest night of the week. One could almost believe his hometown is his, rather than a rodeo with herds of stinking buffalo charging through it in a crazed frenzy. On the night, I motaxi’d to Toscana again, but not for Italian. I asked for the Moom Talay menu, eschewed the seafood and instead went for the black pepper quail, paired with a glass of rose. The sunset was splendiferous, and I was overcome with a sense of bliss that was totally incomparable with anything the BK night had ever offered. The closest, I suppose, would’ve been the view from the balcony at Scarlett, or Belga at Softitel Sukhumvit.
Speaking of BK, I can understand the prevalence for farams (farang clams) in that city. But Ptown? What’s with all the stupid solo and paired-up fat, tattooed white cunts walking up and down the Beach Road? They stick out like herpes sores on the lip of the city. I’m combfounded (confused and dumbfounded).
The quail was insidiously good. No, that doesn’t do it justice…it was a culinary baud. A lusty incursion on the senses. It’s not for the faint of heart. For one thing, the whole bird is on the plate, cleavered into segments, bones and all—I suppose because it’d be impossible to separate the meat from such a small, fragile skeleton. And I don’t know if the custom is to eat the bones. God knows I’ve watched enough Anthony Bourdain to know it happens. But my Gen X So-Cal sensibilities wouldn’t even let me try, so I picked up each chunk with my fingers and greedily sucked the seductive meat from those tiny bones. Goddam, what a dizzying delight for the mind, body, and soul. I must’ve looked like a mad cannibal, gnawing at each morsel, tearing it with reverie and savoring every drop of juice from that sensual, salacious sacrilege.
With my carnal urges sated, I set off to Soi 6, and made it about 50 meters before a gal shouted my name. It was Lookked, formerly of King’s Corner in Patpong. This thing where someone shouts my name every day here has become comical. I sat wit her for a bit, and she was pleased as punch to see me. Then I noticed she’d lost weight, and asked how her finances were. She said they could be better, and I leaned in and mentioned I could ease her money woes anytime she wished. She took my Line and I bailed. Spoiler: she messaged me at 13.40 the following day and asked to come over. It’s interesting because, when we knew each other in Patpong, she had zero interest in being a concubine. Flash forward to now and she’s champing at the bit to get at Seven.
Then I made a short run through LK, stopping at Vegas, Lady Love, and Kink. Whilst walking Buakhao back to my flat, I stopped for moo taut from a cart. An old farang was fighting with a dumpy middle-aged Thai lass who was balling her eyes out. It was clearly a drunken disagreement, and I understand people behave differently to themselves when they drink, and I wasn’t witnessing the guy at his best, but in 15 years this monger has never made a Thai girl cry. At least, not through conflict. A few got choked up when I moved cities, but I don’t think that counts.
On Saturday, the gal I ran into last week—the one I nailed on The 6 in 2020—came over. So for anyone keeping track, of the three lasses that passed through my condo recently, the only new one was rejected for bad fellatio, and the other two are holdovers from previous encounters, one in Ptown long ago, and one transplant from, of all places, the Pong. But I’m not discouraged. Yes, the pickings are slimmer here than I had anticipated. But ghosts of pussy past have swooped in to save me in this dark hour, and because of them (and all the great restaurants, and the sunsets), I’m still on board with being a Ptowner.
But my day didn’t start with the hottie. I was able to get out and walk at 6 am, down Walking Street again, just to check out the scene at that hour. Ten percent of the previous night’s staff were still there. Most were starting to head home. Some ate breakfast from the street food carts that dotted the soi. Several bars remained open with more than a handful of customers. The ladyboy freelancers were out in force. One even approached me, as if a dude trawling for she-dick would be speed-walking in gym shorts and a sweaty baseball cap. Four black non-Americans (they weren’t speaking English and all sported Ziggy Marley dreadlocks) reeking of weed tried to stop a Thai lass as she drove by on a motorbike. She honked and cursed at them under the watchful eye of the taxi drivers, who if need be would hack those assholes to pieces if they made one wrong move in the lady’s direction. Not to be outdone, a shirtless long-haired farang in leather pants and cowboy boots strutted around like he was the main character in the movie of life. He didn’t harass anyone, but he sure looked like a stupid dickhead. The absolute words of Pattaya’s tourist riffraff can be found on Walking Street in the wee morning hours. I passed a young, lone freelancer at the far end of WS. A farang passing in the other direction stared at her with a dark expression. Every time a dude sees a half-decent freelancer, he imagines what it’d be like to bring her home. It’s almost always a nightmare fantasy, but we imagine it nonetheless.
Everyone here complains about the Indians. I’m not fussed by them, really. Apart from standing in groups blocking the pavement like retards, they’re not much of a problem. The people I can’t abide are the Blafri-clam freelancers that seem to be invading all sensible places like a slow-moving cancer, and the fat Asian dudes that live stream themselves every second they’re in public.
That said, I typed the above statement at the start of the week. By Friday, the Indians had managed to piss me off three times. First, by being rude to some massage ladies as I passed them on the 2nd Road. Wasn’t directed at me, but I really hate when guests in this country are mean to Thais, who are only ever kind. Second, I saw four cunts crossing against the light, literally stopping a wave of traffic that could’ve (and should’ve) killed them. And third, when a gang of muzzies refused to make room for me to get through the door at 7-11 on Walking Street. And here, I suppose, is the distinction. There are different types of Indians. You’ve got Hindus, who are generally polite, genteel, happy souls, and you’ve got muzzies. Indian muzzies are similar to most other kinds of muzzies, in that they are rude, condescending, hateful sons of whores. And who can blame them, really? Their holy book tells them that all non-muzzies are subhuman scum, and commands them to kill, convert, or enslave every one of us. So of course they’re cunts. Anytime a muzzie isn’t being a cunt, he’s either 1—defying his religion or 2—practicing taqiyya, which is a strategy for deceiving the infidel into believing the muzzie isn’t his enemy. All that is to say, maybe there’s some justification for the horrid behavior by some of the Indians in Ptown.
And speaking of eating my words, after lamenting the dearth of rooftop bars on the beach road, I fumbled into Moon Whale. Damn, what a view. And the menu is crazy eclectic. I found a sunset seat and ordered a bellini. Then I got very excited for the cold cuts and cheese menu, then was quickly heartbroken at the realization they don’t sell wine by the glass. What Italian restaurant with rooftop bar doesn’t sell wine by the glass? So I got a diavola pizza instead, and yes, Id’ve preferred a glass of Chianti with it. But I had to be content with a mai tai.
It’s a date spot, Moon Whale. When I sat down, they brought two menus and two place settings. I think if I go there often enough, eventually they’ll figure out I’m a lone coyote. The pizza was a revelation. Whatever drink they brought, it didn’t look like a mai tai. It was yellow. But it did taste like one, somehow. I followed it with a whiskey sour, which was pure delight. All in all, Moon Whale was a lovely location to knock back cocktails and watch the sun go down.
This is going to sound crazy, but it never dawned on me that the throngs of old, fat, bald, bespectacled pensioners perched on stools in bars all round this town don’t often darken the door of a gogo bar or Soi 6 establishment. If you’re on a fixed budget, and stuck in a decrepit, decaying carcass, why would you? Maybe once a month, you’d treat yourself. But I don’t think many are hitting the redlight five or six nights a week, like yours truly. I think we die-hard mongers are in the minority. Although I guess those old coots just find themselves a wife or live-in gf, someone to do their laundry and watch them die. And I suppose that’s what I’ll do, eventually. A man can’t monger forever, and in truth, I’m running out of steam.
In other news, my former number 1 concubine in Bangkok sent a message that read “How are you?” I knew she was only reaching out to ask for money so I ignored it for 12 hours. By then though, she’d blocked me. 10 years of friends-with-benefitship was snuffed out, just like that. Sometimes these Thai gals can still surprise you.
There’s no Members Only Gallery this week, because as I posted previously, Stripe—the paywall gateway—has closed my account, calling my content “sexual.” So I can’t in good conscience add any new Members, and current Members have lost access as of the 29th. You have an Aussie named Greg Hawk to thank, because when he signed up and then decided he didn’t want to be a Member anymore, instead of canceling his membership he disputed the charge with his bank, causing a chain reaction that led to my account getting shut down. Greg Hawk, the cunt piece of shit, has done this to all of us, Members. I’m working on finding a new paywall gateway, so hopefully the MO content will continue, though those who already purchased a Membership will lose that $12. Thank Greg Hawk the retard for that kick in the balls.
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 and the redlight scene 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:
@superhotthais
@BangkokNightli2
If you’re feeling generous, you can leave a tip on any of the above X profiles. All proceeds will go to creating more redlight content.
I’ve started to sell my artwork in digital download bundles, so if you fancy some gogo dancer-related pictures, mostly nude Thai chicks photoshopped as paintings, you can get ‘em on the cheap at my Etsy shop: https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
Right now I have several bundles of four to five pictures each for under $10 US apiece.
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: I don’t know if you pay attention to Western news. Hopefully you don’t. But in a hundred years, the US has never been closer to civil war. Trannies are killing everyone who doesn’t embrace their sick sex preferences, and the left is cheering them on. Christians, straights, whites are fair game for straight up murder in the US, with no repercussions at all. If you have an ounce of sense, and if you value your life at all, do not go anywhere near the USA.
