What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
This pudgy punter’s previous week was largely uneventful, except for a couple highlights. Here’s the rundown:
On Sunday I jammed over to Ramajamjagumblaya Stadium for the Coldplay show, and let me tell you—it was a chore. First, I wasn’t sure how long it would take to get there, what with Bangkok traffic, and I still had to pick up my ticket at will-call. So I struck out in a Bolt taxi at 16.30, since the concert was advertised to start at 19.00—a tad earlier than I’m used to, but I thought maybe they have to end early due to some kind of noise ordinance or whatever. I asked the driver in Thai, “Is it far?” “Far,” he replied So we took the toll road and I got there in 30 minutes. I guess “far” is relative. In LA, the closest venue to my place in the suburbs was the House of Blues on Sunset Blvd—25 miles and an hour away in regular traffic. This car ride was mild in comparison.
On arriving, I followed tens of thousands of people as we snaked around the stadium and got funneled into a single narrow path that led to where the pickup-queue was. And goddam if it didn’t take 5 minutes to get my ticket, points to TicketMajor for their efficient system. Then I waited 40 minutes for a taco. When I went to pay, the cashier looked up and said, “Seven!” Turns out she used to work at Shenanigan’s. Bangkok’s the smallest of small worlds.
The stage setup was the weirdest I’d ever seen. Usually, it’s posted at one end of the field. Coldplay’s stage was at the kickoff line, and behind it an entire half of the stadium seats were blocked off. The entire ground level was a mosh pit with no chairs. I was up in the nose-bleeds, and thankfully had a place to sit. I say ‘thankfully’ because I entered the arena at 18.00—an hour before the band was allegedly supposed to start. I say “allegedly” because nothing could’ve been further from the truth.
With 45 minutes till curtain, I’d soaked my handkerchief with sweat and made a mental note to bring three to my next Bangkok outdoor show. As if to mock us in the heat, the concert screens encouraged people to jump on a stationary bike and pedal away, because it would help power the show with green energy. Like that Rick and Morty episode. ‘Twasn’t enough to pay $200 for a seat at the back. We also have to provide electricity for the privilege. Then there was 30 minutes of preachy New Age religious Gaia-worshipping shit about reducing carbon. Everything is made of carbon, fuckwits. Plants breathe CO2. The world isn’t warming, the seas aren’t rising. They had stuff about cleaning physical pollution out of the ocean, and I’m all for that. But don’t ask me to crank a shaft to power your concert or pay taxes for my carbon. Fuck off with that malarkey.
At 19.30, some goddam opening act took the stage and sang for half an hour. I wanted to murder everyone within throat-grabbing distance. Then the roadies took another 30 minutes to break down that band’s rig and put Coldplay’s up. I started to think that maybe I died, and Hell is waiting in the sweltering heat, crammed knee-to-knee with a sea of sweaty strangers, eternally waiting for the headliner like waiting for Godot.
At 20.21, EMTs wheeled a concert goer out on a gurney. I guess he couldn’t take the heat, and got carted off before the show even started. I was momentarily envious. In the next five minutes, three more people on ground level collapsed.
At 20.30 a voiceover from the band members blasted from the speakers, bragging about how green and environmentally sexual they are. Then at long last, the show began. Chris’ voice never sounded better, and the boys clearly had a great time playing for the crowd, which was very international but mostly Chinese, since the band can’t get permission to play there. In the end, I left before the encore, out of pure exhaustion.
On Tuesday, I went to Session after they emailed to say they got some new Drew Estate cigars—Kentucky Fire Cured’s and Java Reds and Maduros. Then I sped over to Derby King for some krapow moo sap before lighting up a Red on the K1 terrace. The stick tasted like a chocolate-covered cherry, and paired with a black ruskie, gave off an aftertaste of coffee notes like a second thought. A K2 dancer rolled up and said hello. When she’s onstage and barely-clothed, I don’t find her attractive. But in cut-off jeans shorts, a white collared long-sleeve shirt and trainers, she was positively radiant. Like candy that looks better in the wrapper, this savory snack was much prettier when she was covered-up.
The Red took an hour to smoke. Then I rand through the 3 King’s, as always impressed with the tail in all of them. Once King’s 4 opens, I’ll be back to 2016 status and have no need to ever leave the Pong. I mean, I will, so there’s a snippet to read about the other two RLDs in these posts. But after eight years, the Ponog is on the verge of once again being the only redlight a local needs.
As I shifted through the various gogos on Tuesday, I spotted so, so many girls that were smoking-hot five years ago, but who are already past their prime. Nuiy, who used to rule Glamour with the most hot-rocking body in Bangkok, has been relegated to the live music bar. I pinch her ass every time I pass by, and inwardly grieve as how flabby it’s become. Oo, the former badass of Bada Bing and current K Corner dancer, used to have a flawless body. Now as she eases into her mid-20s, she’s starting to look like an old spinster. Nat in Virgin has sadly gone from having a 6-pack to a mini-keg around her waist, her perfect body stretching at the edges as Burger King takes its toll. Also at Virgin is a former Radio City girl who just one short year ago would make the hair stand up on your arm, she was so fine. Today, she looks like a marshmallow someone left in the microwave. It’s a reminder that a gogo dancer’s window of hotness is around six years. At around age 25, things start to go south. There are exceptions, of course. My buddy Oil is 29 and looks as good or better than when she was 18. Taitle, who left the pole in 2020, is still rockin’ that flat stomach at age 30. But most of these gals need help. If I had money and clout, I’d start a fitness initiative for working gogo dancers. I’d distribute pamphlets about healthy eating and the benefits of exercise. I’d warn them off fast food and provide free tips for how to stay hot. But for now, my looks of dour disapproval will have to suffice.
On Thursday I was onPong by 19.30 for an Acid Blondie and a cold Leo on the K2 terrace. The hordes were out in force, mostly vanilla tourists gawking at everything from soi end to soi end. A few sad horndogs paced around outside K1 waiting for the girls to take to the stage. Another indicator of Patpong’s recovery is the increasingly later start time in the King’s Group bars. During and just after the lockdown, they opened at 18.00, trying to squeeze as many baht from punters as possible. Now that closing times have been pushed back, and now that the throngs of shorttimers are back, the girls tend to show up later and later. Not Mina, though. She passed by my perch at 19.45 on her way to K2. I shouted at her, and she seemed to shake herself out of a daze to flash a smile and flick a wai. Ever since she got her lips injected, it’s all I can see when I look at her.
Every time I recline on that terrace, I think about Patpong circa 2014. No one would’ve called it the Pong’s heyday, but compared to now, it was. And there’s the rub when you’re talking Patpong. So many “prominent” Bangkok nightlife “bloggers” make the claim that “Patpong is shit” today. And they’re right—from their point of view. Compared to 2014, or 2000, or 1990, or 1980, Patpong 2024 is shit. But if you were to rate the Pong new, with no historical point of reference, the Pong’s on fire. The foot traffic utterly destroys Nana and Cowboy. It’s not even close. Sure, most of those feet aren’t taking mongers to gogos, But the overall prosperity of the location at large is thriving. So when the Bangkok blunts (blogger cunts, copyright BKK7) decry the shitness of Papong, they’re only correct if you look through a very particular, very narrow lens. Also, those very cunts don’t even come to Patpong. One of them started to show up recently because he tricked a couple of bars into letting him do a shitty, shitty job of running their PR, but he goes at 17.00 because he’s afraid I’ll beat him to death if I see him. And he’s probably right. The other blunts report on the Pong second-hand. They ask their buddy who went one time, “What was it like?” Their buddy casts his eyes toward the ceiling, remembers The Mississippi Queen, and says, “It was shit.” I 100% support it. Please, dicksuckers, please keep reporting that Patpong is shit. If your efforts keep just one of your brain-dead readers from visiting my redlight, you’ve done the world—and me—a service.
I’ve often been called a Patpong cheerleader by assholes in the nightlife blogosphere. Never mind that they are unapologetic Nana and Cowboy cheerleaders. The truth is, I’m a redlight cheerleader. I want all three of them to do well. I’m a fan of it all, without prejudice. Preference, yes. But not prejudice. I like Patpong the most because it’s objectively better than Nana and Cowboy. The blunts’ bias comes from being paid to pump Nana and Cowboy. So when you read the tripe they shit onto the internet, after you get past their terrible grammar and utterly uninteresting writing, take their opinions with a grain of salt, or rather, a 10 baht coin. Because it’s not honest. It’s paid-for.
Halfway through my 2nd Leo, an Asian customer popped out of K2 for a fag. The ashtray was next to my table so he set his phone next to mine. A moment later, Mina followed him out, sharing a butt and glancing nervously at me as if to say, don’t fuck this up for me. So he was her first mark of the evening. I dutifully pretended not to know her. Then a minute later, she said, “Seven, can I sit in the chair next to yours?” Jeez, Mina, way to keep a low profile. She sat down and then said, “Why aren’t you in the bar?” I pointed to my cigar and said I’d be in in a minute. At that point, the dude became visibly upset. He tried asking her in Singaporean or whatever he spoke whether or not she’d fucked me in the past. She didn’t understand, so they sat there and smoked in silence for a minute, then went back inside. He put his arm around her and looked back at me like a petulant child claiming a toy. I got up and went to King’s Corner.
The K Corner girls were adorned in red, per usual, and looked amazing. Every time I start to worry that the BKK gogo scene is getting too fat, all I have to do is roll to this bar. Watching skinny, bikini-clad girls shake their hips onstage is like therapy for this old redlight rat. It will never get old, and it will never cease to calm the demons in my tormented soul. The Corner was near capacity at 20.45with around 50 dancers on and around the stage. I doggedly polished off my vodka and skipped along back to K2. Mina and her mark were still there, but he’d barfined her and she was just gathering her things to leave. She went to the loo to put on lipstick. A moment later I followed and before going to the toilet, ordered her to use a condom. Then I took a leak and when I went back to wash my hands, the Singaporean was there, clutching Mina like a toddler clutches a stuffed animal. Apparently he didn’t like that we were in the hong nam at the same time, and raced over to block any cock that might need blocking. I feel bad for these guys. If you have to fret over a piece of rented tail, you must be desperate. On the other hand, if I were in his shoes I probably would’ve done the same thing.
Two newhotskinnies strutted around in white lingerie like baby gazelles. One of them looked Seven harem-worthy. Three seats to my left, an old Japanese guy sat with a gogo dancer in his lap. He had her bra pulled down and was massaging her mammaries. She chattered away at him ostensibly telling him the story of her life. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. And that, clams and gentlemen, is the essence of the gogo experience. At least, for those of use not desperate to fuck, a pair of warm titties and a gogo girl story are like a banger and side of mash for the soul.
K1 had a brand-new superstar onstage. A PYT with not an ounce of fat on her. The previous month’s number 1 girl was pushed to the side so the newbie could take center stage. K1 is a place where, if you’re on the hung for some poontang, you have to strike fast. You need to grab your girl quick, before someone else snaps her up. The Sino/Nipon set don’t fuck around. He who hesitates, loses.
The Virgin girls sported new outfits on Thursday—leopard print. Three of the hotskinnies I’ve had my eye on were all onstage together when I arrived and all tried to make eye contact. I just wanted to ogle flat stomachs and rest my genitals in anticipation of my next harem girl. Keeping them flush with orgasms is a real chore at my age. One of my 22-year-olds isn’t happy unless she comes thrice, and yeah, I know it’s my dime and I don’t owe her even one O, but I want her to come away (heh heh) feeling like it was worth the drive over. Maybe I’m too soft.
At 21.38, three gross Americans walked in during the chubby rotation, stayed for five seconds, and then left, violating redlight rule number 1. If you’re so poor that you can’t stay for one drink and check out the rotation, then you never should’ve boarded the plane in the first place.
At 22.40 I was back in a chair on the K2 terrace with a Leo and another Acid Blondie. I feel like I’m finding a new groove, and it’s not stageside in a gogo. I love that view, but with a harem I can barely sustain and no room for new girls, a glass of beer and a cigar is my new favorite way to wile away an evening. Maybe I’m losing my edge, but we all do in our old age. At this point, whatever gives me a bit of peace before the inevitable bittersweet embrace of the grave, I will accept. And right now, that’s a cigar and a cold glass of something fermented.
A steamy, sticky Friday started on the Lollipop terrace at Nana and a catchup with BKK Prince. He introduced me to his buddy who handed me a bag of something he called ‘boner coffee.’ In case you couldn’t guess, it’s coffee that gives you a boner.
Then I stepped up to the new Essence to check whether my old XXX Lounge galpals stayed in the gogo after its ownership change. The new guys painted all the white surfaces black and got rid of the bdsm cage that used to stick out like a thumb on the stage. I saw zero familiars in the first rotation, but when I got up to use the loo I spotted Earn and Beer in the dressing room. The shouted “SEVEN!” and sprinted out to get ladydrinks from yours truly while I jiggled their tits and Trump’d ‘em so hard (grabbed them by the pussy) if fingers could impregnate, theyd’ve both been immaculately incepted. While enjoying Beer and Earn’s company, I spotted a fellow Patpong local who also schleps to Nana now in order to hang with his old XXX Lounge pals. During the Covid lockdown, he and I were the only two regulars in a secret speakeasy that ran in Patpong for the entirety of the tourist ban and bar closures. I went over to shake his hand and then returned to molesting my girls, who each asked to come to my apartment next week. I pretended not to hear them. I can’t take on any new pussy at the moment.
Here’s a fun new trend: swarthy-looking tourists from Middle Eastern countries mad-dogging everyone as they sit in the gogo. I guess no one told them that cultural fish out of water by definition aren’t intimidating. You’re in my world, douche nozzle. Get that chip off your shoulder.
Angelwitch was on fire with dirty deeds done dirt cheap, I was made for lovin’ you, a little ditty ‘bout Jack and Diane, and 18 exposed titties.
From there I went directly to Cowboy and immediately regretted it. Dollhouse was fun per usual, thanks to Dennis the manager and the always-friendly staff, but after that I was bereft of ideas for where to go.
Bee’s pregnant, so she’ll be off the Rainbow stage for the next several months. So for gits and shiggles, and because I saw some hotskinnies perched outside, I swung into Long Gun in the middle of their ping pong show. A coupla gals sucked beers from bottles into their vajays as I tried to chug down my SML as fast as I could. Whatever hotties there were in the gogo were hidden in the shadows and corners whilst two chunky monkeys shot smegma-covered balls at the customers from their uteri. And that’s when I beat it outta there. And so I’d gone all the way to Cowboy to have two beers in two gogos.
On the motaxi ride t’Pong, I saw another farang on a Bolterbike with his backpack wedged between his belly and his driver, as if he was scared someone would steal it. And look, theft happens in Bangkok. But the chances are around the same as getting struck by lightning. Americans need to be less-paranoid. It’s not a good look.
I got t’Pong just as the Chinese New Year dragoncrobats were wrapping up their fireworks dance outside Thigh Bar. At Virgin, I had a Kentucky Fire Cured stogie and a double SoCo on the terrace. Some sad Gen Zer walked by with his shirt unbuttoned to show off the 6-pack he clearly put eight hours a day into making and was his only positive trait. Fucking hell, how do these cunts not know that gogo dancers don’t care if you have abs. They care about your bank balance.
While sitting on the K1 terrace day in and day out, a monger sees a lot of shit. For example, on Friday I saw a freelancer make contact with a rando, exchanging Line info in what would clearly be the start of at least a short-time encounter. As seasoned as I am in the Ponglight, I’m still amazed that 1—there are freelancers here, lurking among the tourists like camouflaged assassins and 2—they actually have some success in snagging prey.
In other news, Supergirls has finally reopened with a ticket taker outside demanding zero baht for an entrance fee. Apparently, it’s another ping pong show, as if the Pong needed one more. I didn’t go in.
After raining all day Saturday, the evening was even steamier than Friday. I got to Derby King at half 7 and the place was rammed with Chinese tourists taking pictures of their food. I ordered some medmamuang and waited pensively to see if it’d take 5 minutes or an hour. Spoiler: the food didn’t arrive in 5 but in that time, every goddam seat in the joint was filled. It made me long for the Covid lockdown. ‘Twas a hilarious clusterfuck of random Asians waving frantically for service and being ignored. When it became apparent that I’d have to share my table with three oily Mediterraneans I quickly pivoted to a to-go order. The sweaty masses just kept flooding in like a Sino tsunami…a Sinonami. 30 minutes on I still didn’t have my food. I got up to let a foursome of Eurodouche have my table and went to wait at K1. Which would be a problem if anyone else tried to eat DK there, as they’re in a bit of a beer feud. DK offers Chang on tap, and K1 has Leo and Singha. And I guess the King’s didn’t want Derby bringing over food and also trying to undercut their draft beer sales. It sounded silly to me but they’re at an impasse. But on Soi 1, Seven gets what Seven wants so both parties broke their rule for me. A fat white couple tried to sit next to me and order Derby. The K1 staff chased them away.
I lit up a Blondie and a table of four Greeks—or Turks or Corsicans, I couldn’t tell—scowled like medieval cathedral gargoyles. The funny thing was, they all had cigaarettes lit. I guess there’s no hope for peace between stogie puffers and cancer stickers.
After the stick, I popped into K1 but the seats were all already taken up so I slid to K2 by way of the side door. Everyone had on their CYN gear. Mina looked particularly fetching so I snapped a couple pics (see this week’s slideshow at the bottom of this post). “Seven,” she asked, “You have a cigarette?” No. “Ganja?” No. “What do you have?” Cigar. “What?” Buri cigar. I show her my last Blondie. “Oh. No, no. Mao mak.”
K Corner was full. I briefly sat on the lap of a veteran friend who’s worked for the King’s for eight years. She wrapped her arms around me and fondled my junk for a bit. Then the rotation changed and she got up to take to the pole. I said I’d be back later and shuffled to Virgin, where my favorite hotskinny captured my attention. She’s the type of girl that most mongers would overlook. She’s got no ass or tits, and her face isn’t what I’d call “beautiful.” But she knows how to move onstage in that way that a seasoned poon hound like me can spot as a transferable skill. Namely in bed. Like a horse trainer can spot a thoroughbred at a glance, I can pick out a sex athlete from the pack. I tipped her for the privilege of lusting after her taut little frame while the other hotskinnies seethed with envy. Then I backtracked to K1 hoping for an open seat. There was one, way in the corner with no view of the stage. I took it and nursed a vodka for 15 before trying K Corner again. I’ll be glad when King’s 4 opens and takes some of the pressure off the other three.
I stayed for one more Leo outside K2 and watched the zoo animals trawl the Night Market. Three disgusting Euroclams dressed like whores lumbered through, clearly on a mission to get laid. This ain’t Ibiza, skanks. You don’t stand a change against the incomparable hotness of Thai gogo dancers. Give up and go home.
An average-looking dancer stood near my table on a cigarette break. She wore a g-string and tiny bikini top and puffed idly away, unaware that she was causing a stir amongst the vanilla crowd. Everyone who passed by did a double-take. A crew of the dorkiest Japanese—eight guys and two girls—swept into K2, trembling with excitement. Fuck, I wish I could get that psyched-up for a gogo. But it ain’t 2020. That said, I don’t know what I’d do without the gogo. I hate Vegas strip clubs. The Los Angeles clubs are even worse. The suburban titty bars of the 90s were great, but they were a distant second to what Bangkok has to offer.
As I got near the end of my beer, a Nipon came over and sat at my table. He didn’t even ask if he could. Was it because in his mind, I’m white and therefore subhuman? Did he even notice me? I almost moved tables, but then I thought, you know what? Fuck this guy. I was here first. As it happened, I only had two sips left. I briefly thought about kicking him in the face, but thought better of it. I already spent a night in the Silom jail. I don’t need to experience that again. Maybe I should’ve taken it as a compliment. A true racist wouldn’t have deigned to sit that close. Fuck, maybe the guy just wanted to make a friend. From there, I stumbled home, and that was the bookend to my week.
You know what, I’m just gonna say it. I rarely have fun in NanaP and Cowboy. Back in the day, I loved ‘em. But I’m not a noob or a sex tourist anymore. Those redlights aren’t built for guys like me. Sure, I’ve got friends there. And a couple bars in each location are a guaranteed good time. But there’s no sense of belonging in those places. And truthfully, a gogo bar—and a redlight at large—probably shouldn’t be a place where a man can feel at home. But in the Pong, this monger does. It’s my neighborhood. I know everybody, and everybody knows me. Everyone’s friendly. They miss me when I’m gone. The girls are either friends, adopted sisters, or part-time lovers (shout out to Stevie Wonder). Being in Cowboy and Nana is a bit like being in an airport. You make do with where you’re at, with the hope and plan to move on ASAP. I won’t stop going, of course, because I feel like I owe it to the 10 of you who read this rag to tell you what I’m seeing there. But fuck, do I miss the days when my website was called “Patpong Nightlife” and I could spend all my free time there.
In other news, Dollhouse’s 22nd anniversary party is this Friday. It’s going to be a raucous party, and any punter worth his salt will be there, or be square.
In “this week in retarded” news, the moron at Dave the Rave wrote an article about how Miami Vice ‘promised a Patpong revival’ and then failed by turning into a gay bar. Hey, stupid: the bar isn’t in Patpong.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. 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 warm, your beer cold, and cheers to another week above ground in the greatest country on Earth: Thailand.
Get a coffee mug with a famous landmark painted in the style of Van Gogh or Dali at: etsy.com/shop/ArtTourist
Pro Tip Post-Script: Do not go to concerts at Rajalamadingdong Stadium. Getting in and out is a nightmare, and they don’t serve booze at the venue.
