Pattaya Diary 18.10.25: High Season Comes Early

What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and here are the notes I found in my phone at the end of the week…

On Sunday morning I took a stroll to the beach, found a lounge chair and an umbrella, got a dragon fruit shake from an unexpectedly hot young Thai lady, and let life slow to a stop. With all the stimulation Ptown has to offer, it’s easy to forget that it’s still a beach town. Is the beach great? Not compared to Thailand’s other spectacular ones—not compared to an average beach anywhere on the globe—but it’s still a beach. The sea breeze, parasailers, and the constant gentle lapping of the water against the shore is altogether therapeutic. And the fact that the young lass working there (solo, I might add) was drop-dead sexy didn’t hurt.

Thai entrepreneurs gently harass, plying for pedicures, fried snacks, and trinkets. I don’t mind them. But fuck me, do I ever revile the swarthies. That’s my nickname for the varying dim-skinned foreigners from that handful of Mideast countries who try to make cunting conversation. I ain’t interested in your load of horse shit, buddy. Can’t you see the earbuds? Do I not look like I want to be left alone? Or is it that, ohhh, you don’t fucking care. Got it. Well, take whatever scam you’re peddling and shove it up your ass. 

Aside from that irritation, the morning was pure bliss. I think I might make this a Sunday ritual. It’s good to form habits that soothe the psyche, especially now that the world is descending into madness. Hiding in a corner of Asia is a method of self-care. So is banging fit 20-year-olds. A Sunday beach excursion is just hundreds and thousands (candy sprinkles) on the cupcake of life.

On Monday I got a pasta salad from Friendship Market. When I brought it home and removed it from the bag, I noticed that the packet was partially opened. Half the salad was olive oil, and half the oil had dripped out and coated all the other groceries. I wrapped the packet in a paper towel, walked to my bed, got in it, and ate the pasta while watching YouTube. I didn’t notice until I’d finished that oil had dripped from the kitchen to the bed and even onto the sheet. Later, newconc number 2 was over, saw the stain, and accused me of fucking someone else. I tried to explain the olive oil and the salad and the open package, but she didn’t understand and didn’t care to. She cried. It took a good 10 minutes to get her calmed down and naked. Post-coitus, it was like nothing happened. Such is the power of the copulatory afterglow.

I’ve stupidly acquired so many possiconcs (possible concs) on Soi 6 (or maybe poteconcs–potential concs) that I now get harassed every 10 meters by gals I barely recognize. I have to keep a list in my phone of names, bars and descriptions and I walk the soi whilst trying to read my notes like a sad old fogey. It’s a ridiculous position to be in and I did it to myself.

Early in the week I went to The 6 to see May, the crazy-hot new 19-year-old, to check on whether she’d been used up by the redlight yet. We had a drink, and a greasy American in acid-wash Levi’s came in and sat next to us. He stared at May, and when a barmaid tried to take his drink order, he showed her a photo on his phone of the chick he wanted. It was May. So for an awkward moment, he didn’t know what to do. The barmaid pointed at my companion and then at me, and the dude’s brain seemed to glitch. Then he stood up as if his legs were controlled by an outside force and walked out. I knew he’d find a spot nearby to watch for me to leave, so once I finished my cocktail I ordered another, just to fuck up his night. And the icing on top would be when he returned to find she was on her period. I’m always rooting for tourists, who’re the underdogs in the global fight against misandry, until they’re vying for the same clam as me. Then I wish they would die. 

Afterward, I baht-bussed to WS and Atmos. I walked in, looked to my left, and there was my buddy David, Patpong stalwart and redlight superhero. I joined him for a cocktail and we talked Patpong. He told me XXX Lounge had reopened, and I asked, “As a gay bar?” He seemed perplexed. “Last I heard, it would reopen as a gay bar.” He said he wasn’t sure but would check next month. I couldn’t wait that long so I texted Jack Nites who said it will reopen and it will not be gay. Finally, some good news for the Pong. It’s too little too late, I’m afraid. After Atmos, we went over to Pin-Up for another drink, and then we parted ways. It’s astonishing how often I run into people here. Thailand is a small world, especially for mongers and gogo dancers. I can’t count how many times I’ve run into people miles from where we originally met. My favorite instance was at the Sala Daeng BTS Station where a girl from Ao Nang ran up and hugged me. We’d met in Krabi in 2010, bumped into each other in Bangkok in 2018, and it was like no time had passed at all.

Midweek, after an all-day storm I schlepped to LK, stopping for some Thai food at The Nest. For some reason, since relocating to Ptown I’ve been irritated by the sight of old, bald pensioners. There’s no logical reason for it. These dudes are just trying to live their best lives and enjoy a bit of happiness before the Grim Reaper comes a’calling. I’ve no reason to resent them. Still, I felt uncomfortable in their midst. Maybe it’s because I’m turning into a grumpy old man myself, and don’t like to be reminded. But again, it’s not their fault, and God knows the oldies are a helluva lot better to be around than the arrogant Millennial 30something digital nomad cunts in Bangkok. They’re the fucking worst.

After just a bogo of b ruskies in Vegas, I walked to the Beach Road and then to WS. There was a 60s something freelancer that in the 1980s we would’ve called a midget. Little person is the proper nomenclature now, but either way, what a set of balls on her to be 1—retirement age and 2—a dwarf, and still out there hustling. It puts my work ethic to shame. 

On WS, I hit Chick, Fahrenheit, Pin-up, Atmos, and Jisoo. I’m already at the point in all those places where the bar bosses stop to shake my hand. They don’t know I’m a blogger. To them, I’m just another regular, and I like it that way.

On Tuesday, I got into a Bolt cab with a driver who nearly coughed up a lung during the ride. Sure enough, by Wednesday afternoon I had a sore throat and cough that knocked me on my ass for two days, hence the shortness of this post. I have to say, though…lying around in bed watching movies and ordering Grab food was pretty damn awesome. I might make it a weekly routine—just hunkering down and doing nothing…maybe have a concubine over when I’m not under the weather.

Friday was as quiet as I’ve ever seen Ptown with a Beach Road nearly devoid of traffic at 20.00. I started out at Atmos where their roster of hotties (rosties for short) continues to grow. One lady with fake tits and a tattoo over one leg and both ass cheeks is particularly fetching. She’s older but keeps fit, has no stretch marks or baby scars, and sports a big chest tattoo with a skull in the center. A new tall skinny with no tits but pointy ripples and a prime ass who knows she’s got the goods puts on an enticing show. Pin-Up’s three rotations were stellar per usual. There are two PYTs in there that I want to take home, if I can ever get their Lines. In Chick, three crazy old Thai lesbians came in and had a time. They sexually harassed the tomboy barmaids and ogled the stage like perverts. It was a wild sight. An old bald tourist and his wife dropped 20k on drinks for half a dozen girls. Guys like that always get showered with attention, but I’ll end up spending more than him in there over the course of the year. 

On the night I managed to down four vodka sodas at the Pin-Up cartel’s happy hour prices, which is 95b before 21.00, in Atmos, Pin-Up, Chick, and XS. It was like that episode of South Park when Kenny sniffed cat spray and had a Heavy Metal boob planet hallucination. Those bars are straight tits and more tits. 

In Jisoo, two old Brits—and I’m talking 70s—tried to strike up an old-fashioned expat conversation. I pretended not to notice them. It’s a skill I’m improving on rapidly in this town, what with a fucking retard on every street corner running some kind of scam. “Hey, hey, excuse me, hey…hello?” Goddam if I don’t hear that every goddam day now.

And that rounded out the week, thanks to being shut-in so much by the rain and a 48-hour cold.

And look, I’m going to make another argument for exempting locals from the “no Line” rule, even though no one of influence reads my posts or cares about my opinion…

I get it—the cunting tourists had learned to use Line to get around the barfine, so gogos had to put the kibosh on it or lose out on a ton of income. It makes sense. But it’s a real kick in the balls for blokes who live here. Doesn’t regular patronage and bar loyalty make up for the barfine? If I hit a gogo four nights per week and buy one drink for me and one for a lady-friend, that’s 1,560b per week. In a month’s time, I’ve spent the equivalent of a barfine. What they should do is have memberships. Give cards to the regulars that come with perks attached, eg all-night happy hour prices and—wait for it—free Lines from the girls. Or what the hell, discount Lines from the girls. That way everyone wins. The bars would reward repeat customers and customers would respond by spending more time and money there. Somebody please pass this idea on to the owners of the Pin-Up cartel. It’d only make them more popular.

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 August. 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 beach 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: Never delete a Thai chick from your Line. You can block her if need be, but don’t delete her. Because in Thailand, things have a way of coming full circle, and a clam you wrote off long ago just might come in handy later on.

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