What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. After jumping through several hoops and dropping a ridiculous amount of cash, my Retirement visa finally came through on Wednesday, but not before a 3rd trip to Ptown and a bunch of stupid rigmarole. Not that I don’t enjoy spending a little time at the beach, but it coincided with a wave of redlight boredom that swept over me like a cloud last week. Here comes a winge…
On Sunday I Ponged, but I felt like taking a break from being Bangkok Seven and temporarily turned my blogger brain off. It freed me up to focus solely on female bodies in motion. The ratio of clockwise to counterclockwise hip swerves. The twerkers vs pelvic thrusters. The g-strings vs sheer bottoms, and the fuckables and unfuckables. As increasing waves of young hotties flood into the gogos, I am simultaneously inspired to chase new tail and getting turned down because these newbies don’t yet know to revere Seven. And I lack the energy to put in the work to make myself known. It’s not worth the effort when my harem are still so willing and available.
Every time I’m in a Bangkok redlight I’m accosted by people wanting hand-outs. “Seven give me money for somtam. Seven I need beer money. Seven, help me pay motorbike taxi na.” And I never say no, because in the sliding spectrum of global haves and have-nots, in Thailand I’m the former. The universe wasn’t kind to me until I set foot in TLOS. That’s when everything changed. The Thais have a saying for it. “Ton lai plai dee—bad beginning, good ending.” That’s my life in a nutshell pre- and post-Thailand. So when a redlight Thai needs beer money, I oblige. It’s me giving back to the universe what it gave me—a lifeline. To dream the impossible and then live that dream.
Amid a long list of curses the Good Lord bestowed on me, He handed down one or two tiny shreds of luck. One of those is a full head of hair as I slip into my 60s. When I redlight, though, I usually wear a baseball cap, for no reason other than I’m too lazy to comb the mop on my head. On the night in question, I skipped the hat, and the stir it caused bordered on ridiculous. The dancers acted like those TikTok videos of cats when their owners get haircuts. It nearly caused a riot. “Seven! You laww, why you wear muak?”
On Monday I should’ve been at Shenanigans’ all day St Patty’s music jam but instead I was back in a minivan from Ekkamai to Ptown, crammed in with a gang of Indians all having phone conversations on speaker, and one Chinese guy watching the news on his phone with the volume all the way up. If I ever become king of the world, such people will be banished to Antarctica.
I’ve nothing against folks from India. I know Ptown people find them intrusive and annoying but I don’t find them that much more annoying than everyone else on the planet. Plus, my first encounter with an Indian was magical, and profoundly impactful. It happened when I was 20. I was in a queue outside a Tower Records in Hollywood for a Depeche Mode album signing. My buddy and I got there several hours early, as one does, and so we got very familiar with the people in front of and behind us in line. One of those was a young Indian girl named Tanya. She was absolutely stunning, with long black hair and blue eyes, and a body like a supermodel. For some reason she took a shine to me—I think because our mutual sarcasm gelled like jam on bread. This was before the internet, so when the band started signing and the line began moving, we exchanged home phone numbers, and that sparked a friendship that evolved into a friends-with-benefits relationship that positively sparked with sexual electricity. It lasted till she went off to Berkeley and I even visited her there once. But soon after, she met a rich Indian man of the same caste, and her parents arranged for her to marry him, at which point she went radio silent and we never spoke again. I found her on Facebook. She has four sons and looks very happy. But my point is, my willingness to forgive the faux pas of every other Indian stems from the memory of that spectacular woman.
The minivans are always a risk. You never know how bad the passengers will be, or if the aircon will suck, or where or how often you’ll have to stop. This trip was a barrel of laughs. In addition to the aforementioned rude fuckers, two hours in the driver stopped at a petrol station so his copilot could wee, and all but three passengers (me and a faring couple) got out to take a piss, have a smoke, and buy snacks. What should’ve been a 30 second pause turned into 20 minutes of sweltering bullshit. Then when we went to leave, the door got stuck and it took another 10 minutes to jimmy it closed. Then 15 minutes down the road the fucker stopped again to drop off a clipboard at some pink-walled office. Then instead of taking main roads the rest of the way, he cut through the dizzying spiderweb of tiny back alley sois between Sukhumvit and the Beach Road. It was a stomach-churning nightmare. Then he dropped us off at Walking Street. What should’ve taken two hours got stretched to three and a half on an ill-fated ride to Ptown. It wasn’t my worst BK-Pattaya trip but it’s definitely in the bottom 10.
I got another ubercheap room, this time at Nature Beach Resort. I was on the first floor with a view of the pool. The room was nice enough for the price. The bed was comfortable and the aircon worked. But goddam, was it ever noisy. Not just because families screamed and squealed in the pool. Around the corner, a Thai employee whose job seemed to be to just sit outside the hotel chatted on Line with her friend or sister or someone the entire day. The spring on the main door letting people in and out of the wing of the hotel was busted, so it slammed shut every time someone walked through it. That said, I’d stay there again if I could get a room on a different floor.
At 19.00 I hit The 6 for a slice of pizza at Slice. I sat outside so I could watch the girls in Playpen and Sweet Bar. A blonde in the latter shouted at me but I had my earbuds in so I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Then she got up and strutted over. Turns out it was my buddy Tan. I didn’t recognize her because the least time we hung out her hair was black. She asked if I’d let her blow me and I was agreeable to that. But once we got in the room, she prepped for intercourse. After the miscue was straightened out, she set about doing things professionally. One thing the Soi 6 girls can all do well is gobble a knob. Her skills are impressive, topped only by her enthusiasm.
Then I hit Dolls Agogo which was crap, and then pushed on to Walking Street. I found out why so many Indians had migrated to Ptown. It was their Holi Festival. Thankfully I missed the part where everyone gets covered in multicolored powder and caught the tail end of a concert on the beach and some food stalls.
At 20.30 I stopped in at Chick Agogo. I counted two 8s in a rota of 30. The next one had two 9s and two 8s. Then it was straight to Pin-up where it felt like the aircon was broken. I barely finish my bed before nearly passing out from the heat. After that, I wanted a moment of peace. Across from Iron Club, next to two Russian gogo is an outdoor bar where one may sit and smoke a cigar while sipping a cocktail and watch the throngs of tourists walk by. When I inevitably move here, I predict hitting up this joint multiple times per week. I ordered a double b ruskie and a SML chaser to go with my Romeo Y Julieta. An inordinate number of moms dragged their children up and down WS on the night. I’ll never understand what would possess a parent to bring their child to an adult nighttime entertainment zone. I get it if the Thais do it. It’s like telling their kid, “Hey, one day you’ll work on this street.” But fuckity fuck why do farang bring their offspring to be mentally scarred on this road?
After my stogie I hit Iron Club because I’d been staring at their front door for 40 mins. They had two 8s and 165b SML. After that, I did one draft beer in Pin-Up, where the gals were hungry for drinks and more hungry for small-dicked sex tourists of the sino and nipon variety. Then I visited my galpal Mina at Fahrenheit. She’s been featured in a recent promo video for the bar that got posted…somewhere. I want to say Instagram or X. She’s a butterface, but her body is killer and she’s got the sweetest disposition of any gogo dancer I’ve met. I ended the night in XS, where several ladies met with my approval and I made mental notes for future harem prospects, just in case I pull the trigger on moving here in the next year. The following morning I finally picked up my Passport, complete with new visa, and bussed back to BKK.
At the weekend, a tepid breeze soothed Bangkok enough to make a night in the Pong downright pleasant, if not for all the stinking tourists. I skipped my usual terrace cigar and b ruskie starter and dove straight into the castle for an eyeful of hotskinny. My low-waist3d sex kitten looked particularly appetizing. She stole glances at me from the stage, but I didn’t want to precommit to buying her a drink, in case someone hotter presented herself. So I just gave her a perverted smile and went back to sipping my vodka.
Just as I was settling in to the redlight groove, three fat farang–two clams and a dude–took the seat next to me. There wasn’t enough room, so one of the cows ended up partially crushing me with one ass cheek. Just as violence began to rise in my medulla, my sex kitten sauntered by. I pulled her to me. She gently caressed my junk, I put my hand against her clit, and all was well with the world. Plus it made the farams (farang clams for those who haven’t read previous posts) really uncomfortable. They necked their beers and got out of there as fast as they could. As the gal tried to get me excited, she asked if I chakwow’d before coming to the gogo. I didn’t want to tell her that my number 4 conc had given me a BJ 30 minutes ago, so I said, “I’m an old man. I take long to wake up.” I did take the opportunity to bite her neck a little, which sates something in me that I haven’t fully analyzed yet.
After one drink, I did opt for the terrace outside K3, where newhotties buzzed around the entrance like sexy bees. One such vixen shouts my name like it’s a curse word every time she sees me. I glanced back at her and she made the hand sign of “I got my eye on you.” I made the same sign back at her and that was the end of it. “Seven, I see you.” Uh huh, I see you too, you skinny piece of ass.
Post-stogie, I skipped K3 and swerved into K Corner because nobody hits me up for drinks in there. The mamasan asks for somtam money, but I’m cool with that. ‘Twas an absolute zoo in there. I counted 60 girls. The customers were whipped into a frenzy. I’m caught in a catch-22 in these bars. The veterans all wai and bow, meanwhile the newhotties don’t know me from any other punter. The chicks I don’t care about show me attention and the ones I want to wrangle don’t even look my way. There are around six newbies I’d like to sink my teeth into in that bar. That said, I lack the stamina to chase down and bed them. This is what it means to grow old in the gogo.
Then I slid over to Virgin where I got more wais from girls I didn’t recognize, and spotted a filly onstage who’s been off the pole for nearly a year. I asked where she’d been. She said she tried out Soi Cowboy and Nana Plaza but decided to come back T’Pong. Yok came over and sat down. A new bar staffer asked if I would buy her a drink. We both said no at the same time. Not that I don’t buy her one once in a while, but that’s not why she sits with me. She showed me her new shoulder tattoo, and we chatted about nothing for a bit. Nat was also back after an extended sabbatical. She’s one of those girls whose weight fluctuates, and along with it her hotness. She looked quite trim, and had captured the rapture of a lone punter who couldn’t stop rubbing her ass. I like to see that kind of admiration in the gogo. What would get you arrested in The West is a sign of good will in the Bangkok redlight. It says, “Hey baby, you’re awesome. Lemme show that ass of yours some love.”
This week’s Members Only Gallery is the fourth and final collection of close-up photos of the tits, asses, and fannies of gogo dancers in the redlight. The link is here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-gogo-tits-ass-and-fanny-part-4/
but only if you become a Member. The price is $1 per month, and new content is added weekly. I’m too dumb to figure out how to link the weekly posts to a single button on my website, so I post the links on my social every Friday, and provide a summary of all posts at the end of each month. Sorry for the inconvenience.
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 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.
Thai chick-related artwork can be purchased at https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
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: If you ever have to take the bus from Ptown to Ekkamai, unless it’s Sunday you should definitely get off at Udom Suk and take the Skytrain. You pass over a lot of traffic and cut your commute short by doing so.
