What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. As of last week, I solidified my new Ptown harem. It consists of one new face, plus the filly from 2020 and the Patpong transplant (throwback to last week’s post). It’s the smallest crew I’ve ever had, but in my aging, loose state, it’s more than plenty. Now I’m faced with how to fill the hours when I’m not sleeping, working, or fucking. Thankfully, Ptown has a long list of awesome restaurants to try, so I’m on that like white on rice. And I’ve developed a penchant for watching the sun go down in the Gulf of Thailand. That leaves around 10 hours per day to do………what?
The short answer is, drink. My booze consumption has tripled since moving to Ptown. I attribute this to the ease of access and transportation between The 6, LK, and Walking Street, the cheap prices compared to BK, and the pleasure of the combination of a sea sunset and a cold beverage. Clearly, I need to tone it down. I have to stop hitting more than one redlight on a night, and cut down on the number of establishments. But it’s hard to make good decisions in this town. In two short weeks, Pattaya has already calcified the more sensible tendrils of my psychopathy. I’m already less-practical. Less self-preserving.
On Monday I ran through all three hot locales, drinking with galpals first on The 6, then hitting several gogos on WS, then baht bussing to LK, trailing booze fumes in my wake. In BK I was studious about which bars I hit and when. In Ptown, it’s a frenzy. A free-for-all. A blur of beverages and bitches. I could barely keep track of events, but here’s what was written in my phone the next morning:
If I ran a gogo, I’d have different sized girls on separate stages. If a crew came in and one was a chubby chaser, he’d have to go sit by himself at the fatty stage. It’s not fair for normal dudes to have to look at all those folds and stretch marks.
I’m trying to decide which Ptown area will replace Patpong as my go-to. At first it thought The 6 was an obvious choice, but now I just go there to placate and ply my harem and harem-hopefuls, respectively. So far, I’ve spent most nights on Walking Street, and the prevalence for gogos, food, and people-watching does mirror the Pong’s vibe. But LK offers the same, and it’s a few minutes’ walk closer to my apartment. The jury is still out, but if I can find a place on LK to sit and comfortably smoke a stogie, it’ll probably be LK. (Update: by the end of the week, I’d settled on WS as my new Patpong, both for its gritty, Blade-Runner vibe and the quickness with which the bar staff have learned my usual drink order.) Speaking of the bar staff at Pin-Up recognize me now, and put my drink down before I’ve even sat. I really like the view in that place. Too bad that’s all its good for.
Later, I popped into a joint I don’t usually patronize (name redacted). It was chunksters galore. It was chubbawumba. “I eat ice cream, and then I eat again. Ain’t nothing I won’t put in my gob.” The staff tried to seat me between two fat sinos. I spotted a much better perch and asked to sit there. A crabby old staff lady said “No!” because she wanted to sit there. Duly noted, fuckwad, I won’t come back here again. When it became the only open seat they put a nipon there. She still refused to move so he had to endure her fat warm leg touching his. So in the end, bullet dodged. In one joint (name redacted) I was the lone customer and every chick (all chubbas) took a turn at asking to sit with me. Feckin hell. One baboon, after being denied twice, came and sat down anyway and proceeded to try to pull out one of my earbuds. I quickly paid and left.
Then I fucked off to LK to hit some of the low-tier bars that I normally avoid. They were packed with hideous chicks and near-death punters. In sum, I was the best-looking dude in each, and out of league for all the clunge, who were barely 3s and 4s.
But it didn’t matter, because at a certain point in the night, I achieved something I hadn’t reached in many years. In fact, the last time must’ve been in Phuket in the early 20teens. And that point is, when the level of intoxication melds with the nostalgia of the music coming out the gogo’s speakers. And this underscores the crucial role of the DJ on a night out. Crazily enough, all the best Thailand beer bar/gogo tracks were recorded in the years between 2008 and 2015. I moved here in 2010, so these old hits, that still get played nightly, are a fireworks show of memories from my initiation into mongering and the exotic wiles of Thai vajeen.
Here’s a basic thought-breakdown for Thai beer bargirls and/or gogo dancers: the fatter a farang is, the more money he has. Because how else could he be so fat if he didn’t have shit tons of money to buy food to shovel into his gob?
I’m formulating a theory about people on this planet. It centers around the idea of hope. Who has it, and who doesn’t, and how a geographical change can flip that state by 180 degrees. It happened to me first while in college, when my mates and I would drive down to go surfing in Baja. It happened again when I moved to Colchester, and again when I toured Central America. But of course, the real flip came when I settled in TLOS and had to throw everything I thought I knew about life out the window, to make room in my world view for the monger lifestyle. Each of these geographical changes gave me hope that hadn’t existed in my Cali world. And I assume, when people come here for the first time, they encounter something similar. Because this world is a dream world come to fruition. It fosters the opposite of despair.
One night I was out early, walking the Beach Road and eventually stopping at the Frog Bar complex on WS. I hadn’t sat down there since 2010, when it was much more fun and when I found Oil—Thailand’s hottest pole dancer. She had whole YouTube channels dedicated to her and to watch her dance was to understand why men lost their heads for Salome.
Unfortunately, Oil wanted to get married, and so I had to let her go. In fact that made her the first minge sacrificed in favor of this monger’s lifestyle. I got a b ruskie—320b for barely two shots of booze. What a rip-off. A few doors down, opposite 808, I got a respectable white ruskie for 180.
I fumbled into a new gogo, and by that I mean it has a new name. It used to be the old Shark location on Soi 15. Now it’s Jisoo, and I figured I’d better check it out before the lowlife bag of shit known as Bob James, aka Bob the knob, aka Dave the Rave goes in and swindles the owner into hiring him. Once that happens I won’t darken their door, because I refuse to give my money to anyone who hires that scumbag. It’s why I don’t go into Shark or Tantra. I’m sure the owners are nice guys, and the dancers are probably lovely people. But until they come to their senses and fire that cunt Bob, they’re dead to me.
So instead I hit up Sapphire for their 119b giant tiger drafts. I ended up reading a dozen palms, because those Sapphire gals are like elephants. They never fucking forget. Palm reading was a shtick I used to endear myself to them back in 2011. And look, reader. I’ll tell you, because I know none of those Thai barmaids will read this, but I got a rudimentary understanding of palm reading off Google way back when and then faked it for the most part. But goddam if I didn’t accidentally predict a few things accurately. And with fortune telling you only have to be around 10% accurate to get the believers on board. So now it’s like a religious rite in some of these bars. I really fucked myself by starting up with it and then getting a couple things right out of pure coincidence.
Midweek I found myself wandering soi Lengkhee at around 19.00 looking for food, as I’d sat around all day and forgot to eat again. I couldn’t settle on a place, but I remembered jersey Dan had recommended the hungry hippo—a joint I always passed up because I thought it was British food. But dan said they have everything, so I swung in and inexplicably eschewed western fare, opting instead for pad see eew. The joint was half-full of old curmudgeons eating beans on toast, and I assume, tea and crumpets. One dude had a plate of lasagna, and he was scooping portions onto his knife to slide into his gob. And I gotta say, in Ptown that doesn’t seem odd.
Afterward I was perched usual too early for the gogos so I did a lap around tree town. I spotted a petite blonde but only from behind. I pegged her as 18, fresh off the bus, and soon to be run through, so I took my chance and rocked up to her. She turned round and was at least 40. I asked where the hong nam was and then made a quick exit. Still too early on LK, I pulled up at tuk tuk for a cherry rolly. A 5 foot 11 60s something gray haired farang strutted past in a black goth dress, cowboy boots, and ugly tats all over her half-dead body. She had a look on her face like she thought she was Lita Ford. The Thai hostesses at tuk tuk debat4d whether it was a real woman or a trans. I assured them she was a female.
Almost all of the LK, soi honey, buakhao beer bars have one decent chick and then just a gang of untouchables. The locals all compete for the time of the lone looker.
Popped into Lady love where the chicks are all aging brickhouses like billboard in bkk. A solo nipon sat wearing an N95 mask whilst feeling up a dancer. Dude, you’re gonna be balls deep in her in an hour. Whatever she’s got, you’re gonna catch. After LL I slid into a gogo (name redacted). The farang manager sided up and said “You’re Seven.” I was caught so off guard I missed my usual response of “what’s seven?” and instead blurted “How’d you know that?” No one else sits in the bar typing on their phone. Duly noted, I’ll try to hide it from now on. I wondered what benign statement id made about his bar that he took offense to, but he had nothing else to say. I quietly finished my drink and hopped to las Vegas, searching in vsingor Zaii who i must admit to myself is gone forever.
As I departed Vegas, a huge gust of wind swept through lk. I looked up and saw grey mist above, a portent of rain. But I couldn’t resist stepping into one more gogo,name redacted, but monger might know the place. Back in the 20teens it teemed with hotties. Today, it’s all hungry hippos. I emerged just as the first drops of ran started to fall, so I ducked into vice city for a b ruskie. When the sprinkle slowed to a drizzle, I set out for home, and made it 3/4 the distance before the sky opened up. I ducked into a joint called double bar for an 80b sml. They were very nice about letting me drink in peace out of the rain, and none of the gals hassled me. I always appreciate that.
Every time I go to WS on a night, I start at Chick, because I’ve a galpal who ostensibly works there. I say that because in half a dozen visits I’ve only seen her once. Goddam, these Pattaya girls are slippery. Chick is one of the Pin-Up cartel—a five-gogo group with the best-looking minge in Ptown.
The dancers in Pin-Up are just stupidly hot. Not all of them, of course. My eyes don’t even see the not-hot ones. All I know is, there’s an inordinate number of hotties compared to your average gogo. But there’s nuance to this supposition. For example, they’ve got a gal in there with the prettiest face I’ve seen in years in Ptown, but she has a tiny paunch below her navel and a flabby ass. Contrast that with her friend, whose face is comic book levels of plastic surgery, yet her body is flawless. And then there’s the chick who used to work on The 6 who I nailed back in 2019. I always slip her a hundy, even after all this time. XS is the Coldplay concert of gogos. It’s a clusterfuck of clunge. A clungesterfuck. Dragon is their weakest, that said they still have more lookers than most WS gogos. Atmos is their most-recent addition and they’ve come out the gate like gangbusters with many fetching and openly flirty gals.
I don’t mind the fat dumpy tourists who know they’re nothing special. It’s the fuckers with hairdos or the ones who hit the gym and think that somehow makes them distinct or better than the rabble, and strut around town like their shit doesn’t stink. And look, I’m fully aware that 90% of the people on the planet are morons, and these dudes are among them. But it doesn’t garner any sympathy from me. If your identity is riding on your look, you’re a dirtbag. That said, if you’re in Ptown and you wear cargo shorts, a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned halfway, and mansandles, you might want to spruce up your look. There are 10 million of you between the Beach and 2nd Road.
Kink downstairs was closed. Upstairs was a wild acid trip, with nude ladies lounging on platforms surrounded by leering, smarmy-looking men, and a few women. A giant Blafriclam was in there getting her rocks off with a white male companion who rubbed her offensively huge ass while she pawed at a couple of the girls.
Ptown is both hotter and cooler than BK. It’s hotter in the day (unless it rains) and cooler at night. I’m actually considering buying a blanket. One cloudy morning walk took me around Central and then back home via Buakhao. On Soi 11 a lady was washing herself in a hotel fountain. Lots of massage places were already open and old men and solo white women sat drinking coffee on various restaurant terraces. On the beach, several solo Thai ladies sat contemplating their life choices. All of them sat nursing a big Singha with elbows on knees. Ugly white chicks jogged uselessly up and down the beach. Ain’t nothing you can do to be wanted in this country, ladies.
On Thursday I bailed out of my room at 17.00 because the clouds out over koh Larn meant i could sit seaside and notget barbecued. I meant to hit bibliography but got sucked into iDiner. I was the sole customer, and got a fantastic seat next to the water where I could smoke a stogie. Weirdly, I ordered the chili dog. Here’s what they got right: American cheese, fantastic bun, decent chili. But the meat wasnt a hot dog. It’s was a kind of spicy bratwurst. It was good, don’t get me wrong. But not authentic in the American sense. I still loved it. I had some of the bunch left over so I fed it to the fish swimming below me. Then I lit up a Romeo y Julieta and ordered a Dude (that’s my new term for a white russian). They put in too much half-n-half, but it hit the spot anyway.
WS is not the same at 17.00 as at 7 am or 10 pm. The truck traffic is heavy as joints load up on ice, food and bev. Host staff and wait staff are already on the job. The soi is flooded with fat sunburnt farang freshly back from island excursions, plus a smattering of confused sex tourists too stupid to know they’re 3 hours too early.
Speaking of, I finished the cigar at 18.30 and was faced with a serious dilemma—motaxi to The 6 or stay on WS and watch the circus come to life. It’s a Thailand problem. I opted for the latter, found a comfy spot in the middle of the action and ordered another Dude. The initial highlight was watching the Russian girls coming to work. They seem so out of place here, yet I’m glad they are. One or two times per year in get the urge to see a naked white woman.
I did learn that some ruskies are cheaper than others. For example, the bar on the northeast corner of WS and Soi Diamond charges 180, and the bar opposite Lucifer charges 150.. But the bar on the southeast corner of soi diamond and WS charged me a whopping 250. What the actual fuck is that about?
I did a quick looksee in Electric Blue and got gently harassed by three different chicks for my trouble. Then I fumbled back to the main drag just as it started to piss down. I pulled up at the aforementioned bar opposite Lucifer for a Dude and watched the rain for a good half hour. One upside to the rain—it causes the tourists to scatter, essentially washing the scene clean of them, at least temporarily. In the time it took to drink my cocktail I must’ve spotted 10 ridiculously hot clams (and three dozen uglies). I wish I knew which bars they worked in, but they were just flashes in the rain, come and gone like the promise of a memory of clunge that would never be.
Then I popped into (gogo name redacted) and who should slide up but my old friend Mina. She’s been bar hopping lately, looking for the best pay for the least amount of hassle. She also put on some weight, which immediately made me want to leave. But I bought her a drink anyway and listened to her chickstories till my glass was empty. Then I popped into one of the low-tier gogos where the stage was awash in blubber. A hostess sat down and asked where I was from. I told her in Thai that I was an alien from the moon. She couldn’t run away fast enough.
One morning whilst on my walk, I headed up the beach to watch the Thais and their sunrise seaside rituals. Clusters of Thais dotted the sand. They were all dressed in black shirts and blue jeans, indicating they were likely WS bar staff, having a beer and unwinding before heading home to sleep all day. As I crossed the street to walk around Central, two dogs suddenly appeared, walking at my side. They stuck with me from the beach to the Second Road, and only diverged when I crossed to head up Soi 11.
I swung into Hungry Hippo for a kiwi ice shake, since they open at 7. Half a dozen old dudes sat eating breakkie. One German codger was trying his best to explain something to a poor ladystaffer who smiled and pretended to understand. It’s the 2nd time in 24 hours that I watched a farang unsuccessfully use English to communicate his needs to a Thai lass. And here’s my theory on it: when I first moved here 15 years ago, I picked up some basic Thai fairly quickly. In the last decade and a half, I’ve spent the majority of that time in the presence of Thais and speaking only Thai with them . So now, when I order in a restaurant or proposition a potential concubine, I do it in Thai. But these poor sods who retire here are 1—too old to learn Thai and 2—don’t practice enough. So when the time comes to explain something to a Thai lady, it’s nearly impossible.
On Friday I went out for food at 17.00 and found Fra Pattaya. I got the duck with bah mee and it was fine. However, while perusing the rest of the menu, I got excited to come back and try some of their more exotic fare. Then I strolled the same route as that morning’s walk, up the beach toward Central. I had to shoulder check three Indian cunts on three separate occasions who blocked the pavement. When I stopped for an SuV that was trying to park, a cunt farang in a tiny vest barrelled past while talking on the phone. He nearly got run over and didn’t even notice. I had to stop myself from running up and kicking him it the spine. I’ll say that the people in Ptown are bringing out the most homicidal feelings in me. It’s unsettling to feel the desire to kill someone multiple times throughout the day. I also spotted an inordinate number of old white ladies just taking up space and stealing the oxygen. Solos, pairs, families. It made me want to retch. Speaking of, bearded man-buns dotted the boardwalk, smoking weed with their bony-cheeked farang woman stuck to their hips like an appendix. Low season has truly become the prime season for lowlifes to come to Thailand. The too-poor to monger. The large families pinching satang. The eat-pray-love fatties. The druggies. God, I loathe them all.
On The 6, I accidentally garnered the attention of two girls in different bars who live in the upstairs of the bar. These are not Seven’s ideal type of chick, because they don’t have autonomy. They can’t hop a motaxi and come to my room. If I want to get frisky, I have to go to them. Yuck. That said, they were both uncommonly hot for Soi 6, and so I took their Lines. At time of posting, they’ve both messaged, asking me to come back and rail them. Lord, what a hard life we lead, ay mongers? I also stopped in to hang with my friend Lookked. She’s leaving The 6 soon and needs to find a new bar, so I told her I’d introduce her to my buddy who manages a joint on Buakhao.
Then I walked the Beach Road again, observing the weirdos and Thais. An old fat farang in a rayon shirt tucked in to black shorts rocked up and started propositioning every solo Thai gal on the boardwalk. He wasn’t picky, but I felt sorry for the ladies he approached. It must’ve gone something like “Are you a hooker? No? Ok….are you a hooker? How about you?” He did eventually find someone, God bless him.
Inexplicably I again walked all the way back to Walking Street, feet aching, and swung into Dragon to see if their roster had improved. And who should I walk right into but Simon—famed Patpong regular and redlight monger extraordinaire. He was genuinely happy to see me. I told him I’d moved to Ptown and he was floored. “I won’t see you in Patpong anymore?” “I don’t think so,” I replied. He gave me a hug and said, “I hope everything goes well for you.” Me too, buddy. Me too. Then I slipped into Sapphire to drink a big Tiger draft and read palms. It went fine, though I didn’t see a single dancer who I’d want to conc up. Afterward, I stumbled home, bookending my week with a whimper.
In other news, I caught the awful BBC series “Dark Side of Paradise” where a stupid farunt (farang cunt) wandered around TLOS’s redlights and moaned about how awful they are. It’s the most pedestrian, least nuanced, most straightforwardly pig-headed documentary I’ve ever watched. At one point, the dumb twat is walking on Pattaya Beach and notices kids, rubber floaties, and beach toys and says, “If this is the sex capital of the world, why would you bring your children here?” Because, you stupid fucking cunt, it’s a city. Like your hometown. People live here, work here. The kids go to school, the adults work at the mall. They don’t think of their city as a sex capital, you fucking idiot. Only morons like you think that. Her take did improve a bit, when she met a poor bloke from Manchester who explained how, when a white dude is walking down the soi and a girl yells, “Come here handsome man, I want to fuck you,” it changes him forever. Then she asked, “Well, you’d never do that with a girl back home,” and he quickly replied that no girl back home would show interest in him like that. And you could see the light in her eyes go out. She suddenly understood what all this is about. Thai women have made her irrelevant.
Then she almost had a breakthrough. She interviewed a bar girl, and learned that the women in the bars are looking for a man to lift them out of their situation and give them a better life. And right then, the UK slag could’ve made the connection that many of the men are doing the same. Instead, she determined that the men have too much power here, and brought in famous OF star (and acquaintance of mine) Fernie, to talk about how some women are “taking the power back.” That statement floored me, because she accidentally said the secret out loud—that white women want a society where they have all the power. It’s the current situation in the West, and you can see how well that’s going, and it’s exactly why men come to Thailand. The dumb cunt walked face-first into admitting it.
She interviewed a British YouTuber named Mac, who if you’re a local monger you might not have heard of (I hadn’t) because his content isn’t for us. It’s for dudes living overseas who want to see what life is like here. He did a pretty good job of explaining why he chose a Thai girlfriend instead of a British one, though he missed properly relaying to the farag (farang slag) why Western men prefer Thai women, and why Thai girls are not being exploited. Namely, that there’s a wide chasm between Western ideals of morality and Asian or Buddhist ones. There’s a cognitive disconnect that the white girl’s brain can’t grasp.
Then I watched the part of Episode 1 where these stupid cunts went to Soi Cowboy and tried to film. How brainless were these assholes that they thought they could just rock up and turn on a camera? This might be the biggest failure of a documentary I’ve ever seen, conducted by the dumbest farang ever to set foot in Thailand. I skimmed through the episode on Koh Phangan and Phuket, and apart from the misandry of the Pattaya episode, the rest was interviewing retarded Brits who were as new to Thailand as the skank hosting the show, and equally as stupid. So it was people getting drunk and hurt, people using drugs and getting arrested, and people fucking themselves over whilst here, purely out of brain-dead stupidity. The end.
The emotional arc of a whoremonger is unique. A man is naturally predisposed to love and protect his woman. Or women, in a monger’s case. So while he might tie a woman to the bed and pound her till she squirts, he will also want to ensure that all her needs are met. At the moment, not enough time has passed to be emotionally attached to my brand new harem, but I can see it happening in the near future. And I still check on my BK concs from time to time, in case they need help. I’m not marriage material, but I am “pay her rent once in a while” material.
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 last month. 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’ve started to pretend I’m drunk everywhere I go on a night out, for two reasons: 1—because Thais tend to show a little more TLC with drunk farang, and 2—so that nobody can tell the difference between drunk Seven and sober Seven. They’ll always assume I’m harmless, when in fact I’m a free-lying whip.
