Hey reader, how’s life? Are you slaving away in the West, slowly watching all your liberty and prosperity dry up? Or are you living the dream in The Land of Smiles? Thailand might well be one of the last bastions of freedom from the global Orwellian takeover currently killing the US and Europe.
It’s not all rainbows and unicorns here, though. I don’t know about you but lately my life’s been out of sorts. It got knocked off its axis back in March, when the cops shut down three Patpong gogos for no fucking reason and kept them shut. This forced me to make habitual visits to Nana and Cowboy, and though I’ve grown accustomed to it now, the universe still seems off-kilter. Add to that this late-season series of daily deluges and the early influx of hordes of cunting tourists and it’s a recipe for this monger’s equivalent of a pineapple upside-down cake. Not to mention, my harem has expanded without my consent or control. I’ve gone from six regulars to eight, seemingly by osmosis. In retrospect I can see how it went down. A former once-a-month girl who I’d relegated to 2nd-stringer suddenly needed extra help keeping her fruit shake business afloat. She started asking to come over every weekend, and so I obliged. Girl number two was pushed on me by a former 1st-string gogo bunny from Pink Panther who I’d grown tired of and retired from the team. Her friend introduced herself and when I went to the loo, she added her Line to my phone. And just like that, she was a weekly playdate.
Speaking of the harem, I’ve been banging a trio of girls for a while now who are all best friends and originally worked at the same gogo bar. They’re the three youngest members, and a joy with whom to share this redlight life. The interesting thing about our history is how the number 3 girl became the number 1 girl. I took on the first one in 2017 when in a moment of drunken horniness I pulled her offstage and typed my Line into her phone. The look on her face was a mixture of shock and gratitude, which came as a surprise to me since I’d always regarded her as out of my league. After a month or so, her friend—who incidentally I also pegged as too hot for me—sat on my lap in the bar one night and indignantly asked, “You boomboom she….why you not boomboom me?” I was all too happy to make that happen. On her first visit to my apartment, she brought girl number 3 with her. I made that little chicky wait in the lobby, thinking I, the old fat Pongmonger, was out of her league. But over the course of two short years, she somehow gradually became hotter, while her two cohorts lost a step in the looks department, mainly due to bad plastic surgery and too much ice cream, and late in 2021 I finally deigned to take on girl number 3. Flash forward to now—girl 3 is way, way hotter than her two friends, who I still shag, more out of sympathy than anything else. You could call it the Bangkok redlight version of a Cinderella story. The ugly duckling grew into a sexy swan. Ms. Distant 3rd is now the top dog in her little she-wolfpack. It’s another reminder that life is just a string of surprises.
On Monday, an outing that started as just a haircut turned into a Cuban stogie at Shenanigan’s followed by a meat-and-cheese platter at G’s, then a run at the Pong. First, I downed a 90b Leo outside K1. It’s fun to greet the girls as they come to work, and to laugh at the tourists. One dude made six laps around the Night Market, waiting for the gogos to open. Three of the ugliest lesbians I’ve ever seen lingered outside K1 before being coaxed into seeing the ping pong show. Knowing the nature of nightmares they’d have that night gave me a small sense of joy.
I found a seat in King’s 1 just in time to hear a farang couple negotiating a barfine. The female did all the talking…”How much for all night? Not one hour, whole night…our hotel. Go hotel, one thousand baht?” They hadn’t even picked out a girl yet. I couldn’t wait to watch them try to talk one of the girls into a threesome, and their shock at the extra fee tacked on for the girl herself. In the end, they chickened out.
Then as I passed through the side door to King’s 2, I realized my keys had fallen out of a previously unknown hole in my pocket. Luckily, I left a spare set with my pal Lucky, for the purpose of distributing my belongings among my harem in the event of my death, and luckily, he was getting his drink on nearby. I sent out an emergency text and he responded like Mighty Mouse t’Pong.
‘Twas an expensive week for Seven. Everyone had their hand out. Ice couldn’t cover rent. Bum needed diaper money. Oil’s mum’s in hospital again. Little Nan’s got an eating disorder. Taitle needed to send money back to Isaan. If my bank account was a person, it’d look like it got in a street fight. And I didn’t help by spending like a maniac. On Thursday I schlepped to Phloen Chit and had the 2500b prime rib at The Riddler Wine Bar & Restaurant. Why? Because if I had to see their Facebook ad one ore time without knowing how it tastes, I was gonna go postal. The only ads that work on me are food-related ones. I ordered a glass of Pomerol, then reconsidered and went with a primitvo. Their wine list is impressive, as is their shelf of dead soldiers. It seems at some point in the past, they sold Smith Haut Lafitte. When I saw that, my heart skipped a beat. That’s my favorite Graves wine of all time. The prime rib came with a side of transcendent mashed potatoes, grilled veggies, and garlic mushrooms. I devoured everything except the veg because there’s only so much room in my belly. The chef included a bit of wasabi which I assume is the Asiaquivalent of horseradish. I evaded it so as to not interfere with the primitivo, which was exquisite, as was the beef. I’d put it 5th in my list of best prime rib, after Lawry’s, Tam O’Shanter, Flemings (all in Los Angeles) and the short-lived Steakhouse Co. The Riddler gets two thumbs up from me. Shame about the awful name.
Then I traveled back to my neighborhood and to Shenanigan’s for a Cuban stogie and glass of wine. When I rocked up, a waitress shouted, “Seven! Wait, wait wait…” and ran off. She returned a moment later with the set of keys I’d lost on Monday. Thais for the win, again. And kudos to Shagz staff, as well.
After finishing the wine and cigar, I tried to head home, but the sky opened up and released a monsoon. Patpong Soi 1 flooded. I made it as far as the K1 terrace and paused to wait for the water to recede. A solo farang clam around my age passed by, and gave me the hungry eye. I actually felt my balls retreat up inside me. How could she think, in the adult Candyland that is Thailand, where even old dudes like me can have 20somethings, that I’d even glance in her direction?
As I nursed a glass of Leo, a harem girl texted to say “Take care your health in this rainy weather.” I tried to explain that rain or not, it’s 82 American degrees and there’s zero chance of me getting sick in this heat. In fact, I felt amazing and so elected to say onPong for a few cocktails. In King’s 2, a portly Japanese dude had a Thai woman acting as his redlight liaison, translating for him and negotiating barfines. I guess if you’ve got the means, it’s not a bad way to do it.
It goddam rained again on Friday for the 19th night in a row, which made my harem girl late, and so I didn’t start mongering till 21.00, and that’s late for an old punter like me. I briefly considered skipping Cowboy and Nana and just going t’Pong, since it’s a block from my apartment, but as I stepped onto my soi, a taxi happened to pass by and so I had a long, rainy, expensive ride to Cowboy and straight into Dollhouse. One seat against the wall opened up just as I arrived. To my left, three dudes from Mumbai sat next to three dudes from Oakland, the former in their nicest shorts and sandals, the latter in the latest from Nordstrom’s Cancun Cruise Collection. It’s great to see. People who’re (literally) worlds apart are united by the mutual appreciation of Thai T’n’A. A bespectacled white guy in Levi’s and a gap t-shirt sat next to the stage, making out with a girl, with an expression of euphoria on his face. He must’ve been a Thailand first-timer.
Because Tilac had a gaggle of younghotskinnies lounging around their front door, I decided to check them out for only the 4th time in 14 years. On entry, the rotation had one slim girl among a herd of bustling bovines. I almost broke my number one rule and left before the rotation. It’s something I do often these days. If I finish my beer before the ro’, it means I’m either very thirsty or they took too long to change over. Tilac’s second rotation was more rotund than the first, so I bailed to Long Gun, where a ping pong show was taking place. For a 195b SML, I got to watch a girl suck the contents out of a Coke bottle with her cooter, and then blow out the candles on a birthday cake with same said gash. Then 10 plumpers who should never be naked, even in the privacy of their own homes, trotted onstage, and Seven GTFO.
In NanaP I stopped in at Twister first to buy Oil some fried pork. She pumped me for three drinks. Her kid needed a vaccination, and she had to get that jab money. The staff and girls in there have started to wai me like I’m a fucking dignitary. I’m a whoremonger, ladies. Save the pomp for a different circumstance.
Whiskey’N’Gogo finally returned on Friday with a new moniker: Essence, and their grand reopening party was in full swing. The place still smells of fresh paint, and the motif is a cross between an ice cave and a bdsm dungeon. All the old familiars were there, including Earn, Beer, Pu, Ya, Gift, and Sai. The place was rocking and rammed with customers. The owners had brought in a ringer—who I assume was the hottest girl from Tycoon or elsewhere. She wasn’t needed. They underestimated the loyalty of the exXXXers, most of whom are hot and returned to the bar on reopening like homing pigeons come back to roost. For the second time in the night, I saw dudes kissing girls in the gogo. I guess it’s not weird on its face, but for a monger like me who’s been in country for over a decade, it is. Because Thai chicks don’t naturally lean toward that type of affection. In 14 years, I’ve maybe kissed three Thai girls. But I suppose if you’re a tourist who spends 364 days a year not getting any affection from women, maybe the first thing you want to do in Thailand is snog someone. But when I look to my right and see a dude face-sucking with a girl who blew me the night before, it’s, well….weird.
At one point I went to the loo, and on returning, a drunk Thai guy had taken my seat. I pointed to my beer and checkbin and said, “You’re in my seat.” He just grinned and shook my hand. The party was out of control on the whole, and not my scene. I opted to bail, and check back at a later date after things cool down. 250b for a lady drink, 160 for a SML.
On Saturday I was in Shenanigan’s at 14.00 for the Aussie Grand Final. Just kidding, sports are for children and crumbling empires. I had no idea the match was taking place. The joint was rammed with Sheilas and Croc Dundees. I made a wrong move instantly by ordering a Kilkenny. That meant I had to forego the sweet and sour chicken balls I had my eye on in favor of something more Kilkappropriate. I settled on steak and mushroom pie, which was tasty in the way all food from the Isles is, but from then on all I could think about was chicken balls.
After a Partagas Serie 4 and a glass of vino, I trudged home to prep for my harem girl who canceled, providing me with a blessed respite from shagging. When I think of the years I spent in forced celibacy back in L.A. compared to the current constant obligation (constagation) to bang 20 year olds, it gives new meaning to the phrase “feast or famine.” I had a power nap and lunged out into another cunting night rain, straight to the three King’s of Orient. All the familiar faces were there. I eyed them like a window shopper perusing sexual doodads on a store shelf. In King’s 1, Offy sat for a spell, never asking for a drink or a tip. Three girls in K Corner are competing for my attention. I don’t know how to tell them there will be no winner in that fight. The King’s 2 dancers are a gang, if gangs can be made up of hot Thai hussies.
In Pink Panther, a lone monger in a baseball cap made eye contact and nodded. A thrill of fear ran through me, as I thought it was a lonely wolf looking for a wingman. But then I realized he was an old Electric Blue regular who’d disappeared around the start of the scamdemic, and he was merely acknowledging a fellow Pong punter. Perchance this was his triumphant return to the scene. If so, it’s an encouraging sign. Patpong will never regain its former glory, but every little helps, as the old Tesco advert used to say. And speaking of regulars, on my way out the Panther I bumped into another stalwart—the Patpong-famous Sydney, who gave me a big hug, asked where I was heading next, said farewell and swept into PP like a dancing tornado.
I popped into Radio City for one drink. Their roster can be described as “lean.” Not lean as in sparse, but lean as in, there aren’t a lot of chubsters. And every one of them is down to party. I like their collective attitude. From there, I skated into their sister bar, Bada Bing. Several girls were cuddling with customers. Some were mid-barfine, so the stage was nearly empty. It’s a reminder that the monger who wants to smash needs to get in early.
After the Bing I wasn’t ready to go home yet, so I swung by G’s for a pint of Oktoberfest and some Thai-German fusion fare, opting for the gang keow wan with Thuringer sausage. It about blew my doors off, both from flavor and from heat. And you’ve never tasted broccoli until it’s been doused in green curry. ‘Twas the culinary equivalent of a gentle ball massage.
In other news, in a recent post, I mentioned one of my most strongly-held beliefs: that upwards of 90% of the people on the planet are idiots. This is no accident. Rather, it’s the result of nearly a century of a calculated and deliberate dumbing down of the population at the hands of various Western governments, and plagues Millennials the worst. The effect of this widespread and very successful campaign to make the masses stupid now permeates every facet of society, from politicians to police to priests and teachers. Even doctors and scientists, for fuck’s sake. I’m reminded of this fact daily, since one of my side hustles is working for an online certification program for professionals who need to meet specific criteria in order to qualify to work in a particular field. And I make it very easy for my trainees. All they have to do is follow directions. I tell them exactly what they need to write/say in order to pass. And for people my age, that means it’s easy-peasy to get qualified and find a job. But goddam fucking Millennials have gone their entire lives and never been told they’re wrong. They can’t even grasp the concept of an incorrect answer, and are devoid of the ability to follow simple instructions. They literally think every shitty thing that escapes their dick holster is a right answer or nugget of wisdom. They believe their personal feelings about a subject are more important than the truth about that subject. The result is a world full of grown adults who say shit like “I’m a polyamorous vampire fairy.” No, fuckface. You’re not. You’re retarded.
This used to be one of the many reasons why I hit the ejector seat button and escaped the US, one in a very long list of changes to my home culture, the result of which can only be tyranny and destruction. The rulers of the West are bent on converting that hemisphere into a post-industrial dystopia. Thailand was my safe haven. But now it seems there is no place on Earth where one may avoid the encroaching scourge of a stupid population. At least Thais have an excuse. Their govt simply doesn’t educate them. The US govt’s approach of purposely miseducating the people is much more sinister.
If I had my druthers, I wouldn’t speak to other farang. Like…not at all. Not ever. And sure, Bangkok is home to a smattering of cool, likeminded blokes who’re good for a chin wag from time to time. But I much prefer the simple, serene companionship offered by the likes of my harem and those gogo dancers who sit faithfully by my side in the bar, tolerating my gentle tit massages.
This coming week, I’m faced with a #Thailandproblem. On Thursday I’m heading to Ptown for a few days, which means I have four nights in BKK between now and then, and five harem girls who want to stop by before I go. My days of hitting two chicks in a day are long over, so it presents a real quandary. Someone’s going to be shit-out-of-luck. It’s a good thing my harem have the memory of goldfish. They forget my wrongs immediately. Contrast that with an American skank, or the fat, hold, horrid mamasans of Thailand. They never forget.
Unfortunately, laziness got the better of me last week, and I didn’t take many photos while in the gogos. Fortunately, some gogo dancers sent over a few selfies, which I’ve included in this week’s YouTube slideshow companion (link below).
Somehow I found time to barf out a couple new vodcasts on my YouTube channel last week. It’s an ongoing series I’m calling “MGThai,” in response to the MGTOW movement in the West. If you live in Thailand, you probably don’t know that Western women have become undatable. And I have some shit to say about it, hence the new series.
I’ve got a bunch of albums of photos taken inside the gogos over the past half decade. They’re for sale, along with some of my artwork at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart
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/
Photos of everything in this blog can be found in the YouTube slideshow companion for this post at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
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 you live in BKK and you have the means, and you haven’t yet popped in to some of the better hotels’ lobbies, treat yourself. You don’t have to be a guest at one of these extravagant locales to enjoy what their bars, restaurants, and cigar lounges have to offer. Last week, I slithered into The Grand Hyatt Erawan for a cigar and a glass of brandy. It provides a small taste of the kind of luxury a dude like me could never afford as a tourist. Thank Buddha I ain’t one.
