What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
On Sunday, my youngest concubine (she’s 19) who also happens to be a world class deepthroat artist message to say she finished her last uni exam and was on her way over. She didn’t ask to come over. She just told me what was happening. After she bailed, I wasn’t content to finish watching Dune 2 so I Ponged, starting with krapow gai at Derby King. It arrived at my table in under 5 minutes. Man, that kitchen grandma is fast with a pan.
The Night Market has become a boring rehash of carbon-copied vanilla tourists turning down ping pong shows and staring at the King’s dancers. Speaking of, the Sunday crew in K Corner was pretty weak—at least, at 20.05. Sunday is a Patpong funday for locals like me, because there are fewer sex tourists crowding the bars, though as such, fewer girls show up for work. The barmaids are lazier, too. I often have to take my checkbin to the till on a Sunday. Ironically, I have to do the same on busy nights. There’s really only a narrow window of convenience when a barmaid will take care of my bill. I don’t mind, though. After all these years, I’m so much of a fixture in the gogo that nobody blinks when I pay my bill on my own.
In K2, two very, very, very old farang hobbled in separately and slowly lowered their old bones onto a seat. I guesstimated they wouldn’t be alive a year from now. If I’m lucky enough to live that long, I hope to spend my last year in the redlight. In fact, it’d be a fitting end if I died in a gogo bar. I wrote a song about it. You can listen to it here: https://youtu.be/Qw-kObthpb4
When I popped out to the terrace for a cigarillo, every table was occupied except one. These goddam tourists have a lot of nerve, taking up my spot. Do they not know who I am? I’m the fucking Baron Von Pong, for Buddha’s sake. I know Hitler was bad, but—and hear me out—maybe his only mistake was targeting the wrong people. If he’d been a Bangkok barfly back then, I’ve no doubt the Final Solution would’ve been to rid the Earth of cunting tourists. Now that I’ve said it, it ain’t that controversial.
I noticed something while watching the tourists watching the gogo dancer standing next to my table. The young women looked at her shoes. The old women looked at her hair. The men looked from her ass to me and back to her ass. Each look encapsulated a point of envy.
There were only two faves on the Virgin stage at 22.00. One is a former Radio City dancer named Jun, who I almost harem’d a year ago, purely for her sixpack abs and stunning smile. There was a time when I wanted to pound every girl with a toned stomach. These days I’m more refined. I mentally walk through the outcome of bringing on a new concubine, the time and trouble involved in training her, the new headache of her constant assault on my bank account. It’s more complicated being an old monger. Gone are the days of barfining and throwing myself at every piece of ass that looks good. There’s a lot to consider now. A working gogo dancer is a handful. I’m much happier with an out-of-work stay-at-home mom who’s only thought is diaper money. They’re more amenable.
Another thought I can’t shake is how fortunate I’ve been to’ve avoided AIDS. In 14 years of reckless rooting, that bullet got dodged but good. And I don’t want to push my luck. Plus my current harem are insatiable. Keeping them sufficiently banged takes all my energy. An upside to moving to Pattaya (throwback to last week’s post) would be finding just one clam, making her my ball’n’chain, and adopting a simple life. What a concept.
My Monday conc (short for concubine) works at a gold shop six days a week and so she doesn’t get to my place till around 22.00. Since I had no coffee or water in the fridge, and since the following day was to be my first day of semi-retirement, I decided to pick up some essentials and do a quick Pong before the conc’s arrival. At 19.45 the food court was so jammed I couldn’t get through. I had to slip around and come in by Surawong. K1 was already ¾ full. Whatever damage the world economic slowdown and Tinder did to the redlight pre-Covid has been completely reversed by the travel backlash that was the reaction to that escaped bioweapon and subsequent fascist lockdown. The masses are gagging for exotic holiday locales and Thai dancing girls in lingerie.
Monday’s first rotation was a gang of chunk monsters. I could see skinny girls sitting round the stage, waiting their turn at the pole, but I didn’t have the patience to wait for them. I retreated to the terrace for a mini-Cuban and cheap Leo. For three nights in a row, a short bald slime ball has copied my move of sliding between K1 and II through the side door. But this Cheap Charlie buys a beer in one bar and then walks it over to the other. I guess if you’re a poor, and feel good about pinching a couple baht, it’s a slick move. This portly punter finds it strictly lowbrow.
The cigar-on-the-terrace routine has gotten to the point where a barmaid puts the Leo on the table before I even sit down. Inside K2 (and I guess I’ll have to start calling it KII so as not to cause confusion when the new and wackily named King’s Castle 2 opens across from K Corner), three young Nipon first-timers yelped like idiots and danced around the place like they’d never seen a woman in her underwear before. When I arrived in TLOS, I’d already been indoctrinated through years in the LA and Vegas strip club scenes, and sampled brothels from Barcelona to Amsterdam. So any boyish glee I might’ve once felt was properly wrung from me long before setting foot in Patpong. Thus, I found the screams of these young twats a tad tedious. I necked my beer and bailed.
Outside K1 an old gross farang clam tried to take a photo of the doorway by nonchalantly holding her phone askew and pretending it was just the normal way she held it. The bouncer—having seen this lame technique a thousand times—stepped in front of the lens and said “No photo.” The skank actually tried to act like she didn’t know what he was talking about. As she turned to walk away, everyone on the terrace could see that the camera was open on her phone. What a jagoff. 90% of the human population are goddam retards.
Speaking of retards, I didn’t bump uglies with my concubine on Monday because I made the mistake of telling her I might move to Pattaya. She broke down and wept like a baby. Not out of love, of course. She’s relied on me to pay her rent and keep her in mani-pedis for the past half a decade. Also, I’m pretty sure I took her virginity so there’s probably some psychological attachment mixed in. In sum, it was not a sexy night.
Tuesday was my first official day of no 9-to-5. I woke up at half 8 to no alarm and it was glorious. Then I worked on my side hustle for a couple hours, chatted with my brother in LA, and then took a walk. I live in Bangkok’s banking district, and when I leave on a night to monger and then return home, the neighborhood it completely deserted. But in the late morning on a weekday, it’s abuzz with activity. Markets fill every side soi and alleyway. Crowds of office workers eat noodles at pop-ups and shop for handbags and bonsai trees. It’s a feast for the senses.
After checking Foodland and Top’s for Dr. Scholl’s shoe inserts, I decided to get some steps in and circle round to Surawong with the vague notion to smoke a cigar at Shenanigan’s. But when I passed The Roadhouse and saw it was Taco Tuesday, I popped in for 3 tacos for 199 and a margarita. Five minutes after I sat down, a farang walked in and for a moment, I thought he would try to sit at my table. I bristled. Then at the last second he swerved and took the table next to mine. When the waitress came, he said “Don’t you have a menu?” She gestured at the giant wooden slab that serves at the menu at every table. Then he said, “You don’t have a lunch special?” She scampered off and returned with the lunch menu. The reason I bring it up is, he spoke to her as if this was Albuquerque or San Francisco. She was fluent enough to understand him, but for the initiated, there’s an internationally accepted way of speaking simply and politely, and this cunt didn’t know it. As someone who hates tourists across the board, I do make concessions in my loathing if a foreigner knows how to act right. But God help me, I want to murder every uncouth, wet-behind-the-ears fucker that goes to a country that’s not his and acts exactly how he would in his hometown’s Applebee’s.
The tacos were…OK. For my taste, Sunrise’s are better. But I like Roadhouse for their BBQ and so will always go back—especially for the ribs. And 375b all-in for three tacos and a ‘rita ain’t bad.
When I got home, I wondered why I was exhausted and soaked in sweat. I’m not that out of shape. Then I noticed it was 37 goddam degrees (99 for you yanks). On 5 March. It looks like we’re in for a scorcher of a Songkran. Thank Buddha I’ll be wine tasting in Cali at that time.
At 19.30 I headed out for some redlighting. I had the Bolt app open and was about to order a ride t’Nana, but at the last minute pivoted t’Pong for a cigar and a black ruskie. The second I sat down I was surrounded by gogo dancers. They didn’t ask to join me, or even look my way. They just took up the other chairs at my table and lit up L&Ms. The night was sweltering.
I slid into K1 and 20.15 and actually found a seat in the front. The number of hot girls on that stage is staggering. I was set to stay awhile but then I got a text from an old Electric Blue boss who said he was in Virgin on his first Ponging in two years so I hustled over there to hang with him. H’s one of the old school godfathers of the Pong from back in its 20teens heyday. We had a great time reminiscing about all the awesome gogo dancers of yore and where they all ended up. He was shocked at not recognizing a single femme in the Pong, except for Best who passed us on Soi 2 as we made our way to K Corner. Then he wanted to smoke a stogie so I took him to my spot outside K1. Every goddam table was taken up by some fucking waste of space tourist, and so at his suggestion we hit up Radio City—a joint I haven’t visited since a misunderstanding with the manager made me write them off. But the godfather wanted to see it, so in we went. The girls all remembered me and I put 20s in all their bikini tops. There were three very hot dancers in there, and though we were the only customers, the girls were perky and fun to hang with.
From there, the godfather struck out on his own to seek out exXXX Lounge dancers in Pink Panther. I wandered over to G’s for a pint of feistbier and a mini-Cuban before stumbling home and passing out.
Wednesday was day two of my semi-retirement and I celebrated by taking my laptop to Shenanigan’s for a couple of pints while I did my side hustle. And American clam sat down behind me with her beta cuck friend and proceeded to pollute the pub with a loud, inane monolog and I realized in that moment that I haven’t actually heard a white woman speak in…I’m gonna say a year. I forgot how stupid they are. Goddam, was her diatribe ever retarded. She sounded like me and my high school friends if we were having a contest to see who could say the stupidest thing. And her cuckpanion (cuck companion) just reinforced her brain-dead hot takes in a clear attempt to work his way into her snatch. Now to be fair to that skank, men the world over aren’t much smarter. 90% of the dudes I’ve met from Sardinia to Seoul were also straight up fucktarded. But in my experience, the chicks do edge past the guys in the dipshit department just a smidge.
After that I went back home and took a six-hour nap. I’ve a feeling that’s going to happen a lot. The job I endured for 10 years had me waking up at 5.45 and getting home at 17.30 Monday to Friday. I feel like I didn’t let myself admit I’ve spent the last few years in a state of permanent physical exhaustion.
I woke up at 20.30 and decided I’d better go out. Once again, I intended to hit Soi Cowboy and once again my feet took me to Silom—first to G’s for German gang kiow wan—and then to the Night Market for a stogie and some people-watching. I had to flee G’s due to a dray (drunk gay) who was shouting incoherently and waving a 1-liter beer glass over his head. He was American, of course. If I ever become President of Thailand I’m going to ban all yanks from TLOS, except for me and my family. I won’t need to make exceptions for my friends. Their wives and girlfriends have already banned them.
K1 was full, obviously, so I slid into KII. Two newhotskinnies graced the stage, among the old familiars. One of their rotas is nearly perfect now, with zero chubsters and thigh gaps aplenty. The 2nd rota was half-skinny, half not. In K Corner I now have a go-to gal who pounces on me every time I go in there. The Corner was ridiculous, with hot ass shaking everywhere. I got moved twice to accommodate large groups of douche (the plural of douche is douche). My girl and I got sat next to a generic sino who thought he’d hit the lotto. He kept trying to grope my companion as if being put next to him was akin to someone putting a cheeseburger on his table and walking away. Four silly American millennials sat together, each with a girl on his lap, all having a ball, clearly experiencing female contact for the first time.
There was one open seat in Virgin. The chick who usually hits me up tried to come over. I shooed her away. Virgin had two 15-girl rotations. The only one I’d barfine is my exgf lookalike and I’m even ambivalent about her.
My Thursday concubine, who usually shows up late in the evening, arrived at 21.00 for a change, so when I’d finished bouncing her off the headboard I thought, “Fuck it, I’ll do a Pong,” since I no longer have a j-o-b to wake up for. Plus, after sleeping for 34 of the last 48 hours I was finally starting to feel rested.
I got to KII at 22.20 and grabbed the only open seat. All terrace tables were taken up by yahoos, which was just as well. ‘Twas a balmy 30 degrees and the walk over plus bedroom exercise had me sweating like a Nana dancer in church. After one cocktail I checked the terrace again and found it empty, so I sparked up a Factory Smoke, ordered a double black ruskie, and endured three gogo dancers who all asked to try my cigar. I never say ‘no’ when they ask, because the sight is hilarious. One of them actually turned slightly green.
There’s a little brown-skinned dancer in KII who’s very popular with the sino set, likely due to her exotic skin tone. An unassuming-looking Chinese guy barfined her, and they walked up the soi, both grinning from ear to ear. I like to see it. A Bangkok barfine is usually a win-win for both parties. Actually, what am I saying? A lot can go wrong. But if both participants are amiable, chances are good they will each come away happy.
A blafrican American dude tried to barfine an off-duty dancer directly from her chair. Ballsy move, I thought. He typed a price into his phone. The girl said, “No-no no!” and fled into the bar while he walked on in embarrassment.
Miraculously, I was able to find a seat in K1 at 23.40. For the last 10 years I’ve rarely seen the redlight after 22.30 due to an early wakeup call. But those days are over. I was a little excited to see what the late-night redlight looks now. I think the momentary lull in customers was just a fluke because in under 10 minutes the place was full again. My takeaway so far was, near midnight 1—a lot of girls are already barfined, 2—the ones who remain are drunk and crazy, and 3—so are the customers. I actually didn’t like the chaotic vibe and made a mental note to start carrying a weapon again on late-night outings. I also realized in that moment that I don’t know any K1 girls anymore despite the fact they all know me.
At midnight I decided to have a mini-Cuban outside K1 to analyze the late foot traffic in the beer garden, and I saw something new: a Japanese guy brought his hot girlfriend all the way from Tokyo and paraded her through the Night Market. And she put every gogo dancer to shame with her hotness. Every Asia-centric monger probably already knows this but there’s a hierarchy of hotness on this continent. Hands down the best-looking girls are from Japan. Koreans are a close 2nd. The bronze medal goes to the 1 percent of Chinese chicks who’re hot (they’ve done there what Italy did—fucked themselves into two tiers—one hot, one horrid). 4th place are Filipinas, followed by Thais, Cambodians, and Vietnamese. I’ve seen a few hot Burmese chicks but the jury will have to remain out until they’re done genociding each other.
On Friday I hit Shenanigan’s for a lunch-breakfast and endured a stupid American who tried to get the barmaid to find his hometown college basketball game on the TV. He kept saying stuff like, “Nah it’s cool, no worries.” The barmaid doesn’t understand that shit, you fucking retard. Also, Thailand’s satellite sports channels don’t show American college games. Goddam, what a moron. Also, if you’re so desperate to see your team play, you’re not the world-travel type. Fucking go home.
After what is now a customary afternoon nap, I flitted to Nana, stopping in Hooter’s first for buffalo chicken tacos and a margarita. On the Bolt ride over, I saw a Baltic couple walking down Sathorn Road. She was a stunning Eastern Block-looking supermodel. He had a badass tattoo sleeve, white t-shirt tucked in to black sweatpants, and sandals with socks. Damn, those Slavs can get away with douchey fashion choices. Speaking of, a crew of Ameridorks took up my usual Hooter’s seat. I knew they were yanks because they kept high-fiving each other while looking round to see who might be watching them. One got on his phone and had a shouting match with someone on another continent.
I landed at Angelwitch at 20.05. Things were quiet and the chunky rotation had the stage. I was grateful for a cold beer and some aircon. The past week’s heat has been brutal. The DJ pumped a classic—Murray Head—and 10,000 flashbacks from Krabi to Koh Chang overloaded my circuits like a lightning strike. He followed it with Men At Work just as the skinny rota clocked in. Whilst chatting with Joey D, we discussed our new drinking strategies. I’m well over the hill, so I temper my beer intake with two or three club sodas in between. Joe said he does the same. Gone are those days from our 20s when the goal was to make booze a vehicle by which to dance as close as possible to the line between life and death. These days I seek a bland meal, a bowel movement, and a few club sodas to keep me at a safe, sensible distance from that line.
In Geisha, the bubble bath was the crowd-pleaser per usual. Dudes can’t resist rubbing soaped-up boobs and butts. One fool sat puffing away on a cigar. The mamasan came over and told him it wasn’t allowed, using the universal sign of making an “X” with her forearms. He pretended not to understand while speeding up his puff ratio. Once he could no longer fake misunderstanding he took two more huge puffs and crushed it out. What he did see was the giant bouncer who slipped up behind him, preparing to put him in a headlock. Luckily, he acquiesced just in time.
Man, I’m starting to really rely on new sex tourists through which to relive the novelty of the redlight. After 14 years, I’m stupidly bored with Nana and Cowboy—and even the Pong. I constantly forget what a marvel they are. They’re the 8th Wonder of the World. They’re the Mecca for all straight men who worship at the altar of a fuckable vagine. One of the last bastions of patriarchy, where a man can be a man and a woman can be an object of desire. Where every male drive can be sated. Where female beauty is like gold dust, and sex is a rite, if not a right. Where her body is truly a wonderland, and the curve from her tits to her hipbone is an amusement park ride. Yet as I inwardly scold myself for becoming bored with the scene, I know that five days into my California holiday next month, I’ll be back to yearning for the redlight like an oasis in the desert.
At 20.52 I got the last seat in Billboard—a high top table near the carousel. The Ameridouche from Hooter’s were all sat round that circular stage. The view hasn’t changed much in there. The girls are all still mid-30s and fit, as if a gym membership were a corequisite for working there. A mamasan approached and offered to have a girl come over. I haven’t barfined anyone from Billboard since 2012. She was a sweet girl named May, and she died in a motorbike accident in 2013. I don’t see myself taking anyone else out of that bar, maybe out of some sense of loyalty to May. Suddenly my high top got three new customers—a gang of swarthy looking West Asians—and so I necked my beer and bailed.
Essence is a ot mess, meaning most of the girls look like a cracked egg on a hot skillet. They’re oozing out all over the place. Beer is the hottest one in there, and Earn—who should be the hottest but has let herself go in all sorts of ways—is a distant 2nd. All other exXXXers were M.I.A. I can’t see myself going back in there, even for besties Beer and Earn. I’d rather investigate Cowboy. There were two newhotskinnies in the 2nd rotation, though, so it wasn’t a total loss. Speaking of exXXXeres, I bumped into one on the stairs exiting Nana. I gave her a smack on the ass and she shouted “Seven!” while grinning from ear to ear.
In Dollhouse, three gross white chicks in tatts, piercings, and shaved haircuts plus one idiot dude with ear gauges were harassing three Japanese guys because one of them was wearing a Star Wars t-shirt. The white dude kept shouting “Star War! Star War! Star War!” over and over. God in Heaven, why don’t these people just fucking die? Hilariously, the Nipons had all barfined girls, and so had to bid an awkward farewell to the gross farang trying to make friends with them.
Jack Nites and Andy showed up about two minutes after me. I glanced around for Dennis but didn’t see him. At the corner stage, an octogenarian was trying to stick his nose up the ass of the pole dancer. She deflected it like an anime ninja. Suddenly, Dennis appeared right next to me with a free beer in hand. I feel like Dennis and I are kindred spirits. We missed each other by inches in the 90s, both in LA and Vegas. I get the feeling we were in the same clubs and bars from Santa Monica to Silverlake for years and just didn’t know each other. It took a transpacific odyssey to finally cause our paths to cross.
Since mentioning a potential move to Ptown in last week’s blog, half a dozen redlight regulars have urged me to reconsider. They all said the same thing: “You’ll be bored out of your mind.” And maybe that’s true, but I’ve always known I’d end up there. It’s been my retirement plan all along. I didn’t know it’d happen this soon, but I resigned myself to the inevitability a long time ago. Plus, a sleepy beach town isn’t novel to me. My first three years in country were spent in beach towns, first in Ao Nang and then in Bangtao. I’m OK with a quiet curtain call. The truth is, I don’t know how much longer I can keep up this redlight life. And it’s not like that’ll end in Ptown. I imagine I’ll find a regular spot in LK Metro, Walking Street, and even on The 6. LA natives are city boys, for sure. But we’re also beach bums. And I can foresee doing periodic weekends in BKK, just to maintain familiarity with the scene.
For the first time in many months, I swung into Shark. The second I sat down, three girls onstage all shouted “SEVEN!” I wai’d them but had no idea who they were. The barmaid knew my drink order before I said it. It’s not because the Shark people know me. It’s because a lot of them used to work in Patpong. A dancer sat next to me and asked, “What’s your name?” I shouted to the girls onstage, “What’s my name?” They all said “SEVEN!!!” The dancer asked how they knew me. I showed her my X profile and tipped her a hundy to go away. In Shark, I broke redlight rule number 1 and left before the rotation. Outside, I was shocked to run into Ya—a former XXX Lounge dander—who was working as a hostess there. We hugged, and she told me she lost her phone. She typed her new number into mine and I shoved off.
After a glorious motaxi ride t’Pong I parked outside Virgin with a Kentucky Fire Cured stogie and a double SoCo, then coasted to the K1 terrace for a cheap Leo. Somehow I was drunk as a skunk by that point. Soi 1 was busy per usual and I tried to just sit back and relax. An American in is 40s approached a K1 barker and asked, “How does it work?” The Thai guy shook his head and said “Go in and see for yourself.” I should set up a booth like Lucy in the Peanuts cartoons and charge money for advice on how to navigate the redlight. I’d probably make a fortune.
On Saturday, I slept till half 9 for the first time in two decades, got up, had two coffees, fucked around on the internet, took a walk, bought groceries, and then came home and took a five-hour nap. I guess it was wrong about being caught-up on sleep. I had to make K1 by 20.00 to meet jack Nites for a video shoot. K1 and KII are just glorified sex buffets. The amount of hot cooch in there is rawdogulous (that’s a girl that’s so hot you can’t not raw dog her).
Virgin was light on girls and half-full at 21.45. There were two newskinnies in the first rotation. The 2nd rota was more robust, with several of Seven’s favorites mixed in with some chunksters. By 22.00 the joint was full. I basked in the glow of crazy hotness for the length of one Heiny and then meandered back to the beer garden for a mini-Cuban to finish off the week.
While the King’s Group builds their new gogo across from K Corner, rumors abound that their new hotel and sports bar are doing in on Soi 2, somewhere near the old Patpong Museum. I checked, at sure enough there was a pile of concrete outside the door on the 2nd floor, as if some kind of work is being done, though I can’t think they could build anything there until construction of Dok Bar on the ground floor is completed.
It turns out I snapped enough pics to cobble together a slideshow for this week. It’s imbedded below this post. If any of the photos don’t gel with the above content, check my X posts over the past week for context.
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-related stuff on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
Artwork and photo albums from inside the gogos are available for digital download at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart at super-low prices.
Slideshows from previous blogs going back several years can be found at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
Follow me on Twitter/X @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, 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.
Thai chick-related posters and prints on canvas can be found at
https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
Pro Tip Post-Script: I’m a bigot. There’s one group of people on this planet that I am unapologetically prejudiced against, and that’s stupid people. If you make a stupid comment on one of my X or FB posts, you’ll be blocked instantly. So if you enjoy seeing my content, and if there’s a remote possibility that you’re stupid, take the safe route and don’t comment.
