What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. I can’t remember which day it was, but last week I carved out a night to hit up Soi Cowboy, just to gauge the scene and to visit my friend Bee in Rainbow. Every time I leave Silom, I feel an invisible tether stretching back to it like a lifeline. The older I get, the less I want to leave the one-mile radius around my apartment.
Rainbow was empty at 21.00. I had a drink with Bee who filled me in on all the recent ex-Strip dancer gossip. A mutual friend and former Patpong superstar had a miscarriage, tragically. Another has recently quit the Pong and moved to Cowboy. Bee said business in the bar has been slow for a while. It’s not surprising, looking at the stage of 99% chubsters. I scooted to Baccarat, which was rammed. I don’t know how anyone barfines a girl in all that chaos. They charge 190 for beers as if the view in there is worth an extra 10 baht (it ain’t).
I popped into Shark, where a girl tried to insert herself before I even sat down. She’s was a 6, so I said no. I saw no one onstage above a 7. When I first moved to Thailand, Soi Cowboy was renowned for having the hottest girls in any redlight. Today, it’s a shit show.
Outside on the soi, I got grabbed many times by various girls. The bars must not be doing very good business if they’re forced to show attention to an old goat like me. One familiar former Pong dancer asked me for taxi money, so I slipped a hundy in her bra. Then three of her friends lined up, hoping the charity would somehow rub off on them. It didn’t. Then I had one on the Tilac terrace before peeking inside. They were quite busy, but the throngs of tourists walking up and down the soi is a deception. Most are just there to rubberneck and take selfies, and not actually patronize the gogos.
And per usual, that’s all I could stomach of Cowboy. I max out at four bars every time. I wanted to have a beer and a mini-Cuban on the Long Gun terrace but it was already completely taken up by fat, sweaty Americanos.
Early in the week I had a conc over who normally only blows me, but she looked particularly good on that occasion so I decided to give her a rogering. She said “Long time now I not boom-boom, Seven. You bow-bow.” It turned out she’s one of those girls whose vagine shrinks if it’s not used regularly. That thing was so tight, at first I was convinced I’d accidentally put it in her bum. After five grueling minutes of mutual torture, we gave up and reverted back to the customary bj. Damn, was it ever an ordeal. I’ve decided to take her off the roster for the time being. The experience was too mentally jarring.
On Wednesday I went to bed feeling fatigued and a little foggy, and woke up on Thursday with aches and pains, chills and sweats, and a killer headache that turned out to be one of those 24-Hour flus that stretched to 48. I had to go back to Ptown for some more goddam visa-related horse shit, and since I’m on a budget this month (a first-time Non-O costs 10 times more than a Non-B), instead of hopping a Grab taxi I had to schlep to Ekamai and travel like a common tourist. But just as I got in the queue for the bus, a minivan service that was set to leave in 3 minutes shouted out for one more passenger. I snagged it and settled into the front seat with a sigh of relief. Three hours later I checked in to the Sumalee Residence on soi 12 for an unbelievable 600 baht off Agoda. It’s a bargain-basement inn—I wouldn’t call it a hotel—wedged in the back of a tiny soi that no one would normally walk down. The back-alley 2nd and 3rd Road cheap hotels are like a mythical above-ground labyrinth full of mystical creatures, mostly of the old pensioner and broke backpacker type. My supercheap room looked out at the back of another hotel that was shaped like an MC Escher drawing—all wrong angles and crooked stairwells—with shirtless hairy vagabonds in pink swim trunks staring blankly out of open windows. A swimming pool that never saw sunlight was shoehorned between the buildings where geriatric dudes listlessly dog paddled back and forth like a child’s bathtub toys with low batteries.
10 minutes after arrival, it began to piss down, and when it hadn’t let up by 19.00, I went to The 6 anyway. My fever and headache persisted, so I downed a handful of painkillers, put on my big-boy pants, and plunged into the rain. If a man ever wants to feel the kind of female attention normally reserved for the handsome and famous, he need only walk down Soi 6 while it’s raining. Clunge-tourist foot traffic is down 90%, and them gals is hungry for cash.
Strangely, I felt no urge to hit any bars, that is until I saw that Maggie Choo’s had finally reopened. They had a couple of hotskinnies, a handful of chunksters, and a lot of in-between. As the rain fell harder and I reckoned I’d be stuck there for a while, a blonde in my peripheral shouted my name. It turned out to be a chickie I’d shagged when I was there with my brother in January. She’d switched bars along with a gaggle of others. And here’s something crazy. Of the millions of people Facebook could offer up as friend suggestions, one of them is this same said girl I nailed. My best theory is that Facebook tracks every user’s location, and if two phones sit near each other for a long enough amount of time, the Ai assumes they’re. Which means as far as an Ai is concerned, humans who have one drink and then hump for 10 minutes should be in their respective Facebook contacts. We chatted for half an hour while the rain persisted. Once it let up, I said goodbye and got off The 6, opting for a lap around Sois 7 and 8. There I found many an empty bar with not attractive-staff, like shops on a street in an old ghost town. I did notice another new place opened up on Soi 7 in the spot where an old pool hall called “69ers” used to be. That old joint is where I made many happy memories pre-2015.
On Walking Street I hit XS first, just as it opened, light-headed and soupy thanks to stubborn flu symptoms. The bar filled to capacity in less than 10 minutes. I didn’t see as many hotskinnies as I usually do, but maybe it was due to the all-day deluge. Blame it on the rain.
Then I popped over to see if the all-new Electric Blue had finally opened, and it had, so I stopped by for a 99b Chang draft, cringing as I remembered the price back when I first arrived in country—50b. The Windmill group owns the new eb, and the inside looked exactly loke a miniature Windmill. For all intents and purposes it was Windmill, with a different name slapped on the wall. A chubby gal insinuated herself into my world. I told her I wasn’t interested but once she was sat there, she seemed unsure as to how to make an exit, so I engaged her in conversation and later tipped her a hundy for her bravery.
It’s interesting that the Russian barkers outside the Walking Street white girl gogos still dress as though they got their garb at a Soviet co-op circa 1980. I guess it makes sense that post-communist Russia would’ve kept up a have-and-have-not society. Oligarchs and peasants, as it were.
Crazily, a dirty massage parlor has opened up on the west side, down a little dead-end ally where, if memory serves, a little bar called Happy A-Gogo used to serve cheap cups of warm Tiger draft in the 20teens.
In Pin-Up, one entire rotation (30 chicks) had fake boobs. I wondered if it was a requisite, or whether a generous benefactor had purchased them all. I counted four 10s in each rota. Then I called it a night, acknowledging that at my age, even a mild flu can cut your redlight excursion short.
On the baht bus back from Walking Street, 25 Punjabs crammed in with me. They didn’t talk—they yelled at each other all at the same time, occasionally bursting into laughter that sounded like a combination of fireworks and diarrhea. One even tried to get everyone to join in a song. I exited half a mile early just to get away from them. Ptown was chock full of douchebags on this visit. I know that’s a given, but there seemed to be more than usual this time. I saw one longhaired farang swerve his rental scooter across both lanes on the 2nd road, forcing cars and trucks to slam on their brakes. I crossed my fingers and prayed to Buddha that he’d be crushed by a busload of Chinese tourists, but no joy.
According to my visa guy, new Retirement Visas may become impossible to obtain, thanks to a new rule instituted by the banks that prevent the opening of new accounts under certain circumstances. He said I’d made it just hours before the new rule was implemented.
After that business was concluded, I made haste to return to BKK. That haste was stalled at the Pattaya bus station, where I had to wait an hour to board. Jesus, how do people put up with such blatant inefficiency? I have to go back on Monday to take a photo at Immigration, then wait another 3 days for the final passport stamp. What a fucking ordeal. Thailand should administer IQ tests throughout primary and secondary school, and only allow the highest scorers get into govt instead of the current rotating redundant shit show of Larry, Moe, and Curly. The recorded announcements for each bus are now played in Mandarin in addition to Thai and English. Onboard the bus, the aircon was so strong that everyone’s teeth chattered. That was a first for yours truly. Normally it’s the opposite. One dude stuffed his socks in the vents. Another reached back and adjusted someone else’s to point them away from his seat. You get one guess as to which country they were from. Speaking of those tourists, another jackass watched a TV show on his phone with the volume up all the way. The driver actually pulled over and told him to turn it off. The seatbelts weren’t adjustable so if you’re more than 40 kilos you can’t wear one. At the front of the bus was a handwritten sign that said in English “please do no talk loudly in the vehicle” and under that was written the same in Mandarin, except not Mandarin. It was the English phonetic translation of Mandarin, which helps precisely no one.
At the weekend, I wound up back in the Pong for a meetup with Jack Nites, who had a photo shoot in several gogos. I got there early for a plate from the food court plus a backwoods. A Chinese family–that is to say, elderly parents and two adult daughters, one of whom had an African American husband–parked next to me with their two biracial toddlers. Their daughter looked like she’d grow up to be a supermodel. She already resembled a breathing Benetton advert. If they get their son into acting, he can be the next Karate Kid—Jayden Smith and Jackie Chan in one.
On the nights when I get to the k1 terrace before the gogo opens, I sit facing the beer garden and can’t see into the bar. The way you can tell the girls have started dancing is, every head in the garden turns in unison to stare through the door. When Jack rolled up, we bounced into a couple of gogos while the bosses plied us with free beers, until my conc messaged to say she was on her way to my place. I hurried home, showered, and then banged her head into the headboard for half an hour. After she left, I got dressed and returned t’Pong just as Jack was finishing up. We popped into Virgin for a drink. He said he recognized no one, and that made me realize how much more time I spend here than him. I knew every chick onstage. There were so many wais my hands got tired.
While Jack and I were chillin’ he told me a horror story about a dude in the gogo scene who’s dating a superhot dancer that apparently has a jealous farang ex-boyfriend who’s decided to spread all kinds of shit about the new bf out of spite. There are two issues here. First, no self-respecting man should be so hung up on a gone girl that he takes time out of his day/week/month to harass her new boyfriend. If you do that, you’re a bitch, 1—because only a big fat pussy would emotionally attach to a temporary gal like a gogo dancer. They come and they go, bro. Grow a pair, and 2—because only a twat would blame the next guy for getting with her. Douche, you were with her because she’s irresistibly hot. Did you think she’d spend the rest of her days alone after you? Get your head out of your ass. She’s going to get railed by dozens of other guys between now and the grave. Second, it raises the serious issue of the cunt-to-not-cunt ratio in the Bangkok redlight. The nightlife scene is the grate around the drain in the sink of life. A lot of scum and grime collect here. That’s why this pudgy punter avoids tourists, expats, fellow mongers, and other farang like the plague. I can count the number of sound blokes I’ve met on one hand. Norm Macdonald famously said he had a million friends on social media, and in real life he had two. In BK, when it comes to farang I have two friends and a trio of friendly acquaintances, and I’m astounded to’ve found that many not-twats in this town. The flipside of that coin is the many great Thai friends and part-time lovers who make talking to farang virtually unnecessary. Interestingly, I did have one female farang friend back when I lived in Krabi. We worked together at a fake NGO, and she had a thing for skinny tattooed Thai guys, so we were often each other’s wingman on a night out. Then she moved back to the US and went to work for the FBI. She messaged me last week to tell me she’s waiting to see if Trump gives her the axe. I told her I hope she survives the purge, but the truth is I hope every 3-letter agency gets burned to the ground. When the rot reaches the bone, there’s no choice but to amputate, and the entire US govt’s skeleton is lousy with gangrene. But I digress.
So in previous posts, I’ve made mention many times of a dirtball regular in Patpong who is too poor to buy drinks in the gogo. At first, he tried getting a cheap draft on the terrace and then walking into the bar with it, but the staff shut that down tut suite. Then he’d buy one bottle of Chang and carry it with him to all the King’s bars so as to avoid buying one in each location. Last week, he outdid himself. He bought a Chang from 7-11, hid it in his backpack, went to the K1 toilet, pulled it out and proceeded to walk around the gogo with it. That’s genius-level cheapness right there. The only flaw in his plan is, he can never sit down because then the bar staff will realize he doesn’t have a checkbin. So he must constantly circle the bar like a stubby bald shark, or switch bars. Meanwhile I can’t buy a drink in there because the boss insists on buying them for me. That’s the difference between a douche and the Baron Von Pong.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is yet a third 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-dancer-tits-ass-and-fanny-part-3/
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: I know I’ve mentioned this one before, either in a post or as part of a 10 top 10 list on my Substack, but if you have to ride the bus in Thailand, buy two tickets. That way you don’t have to put up with someone else’s elbows, and you can set your bag on the seat instead of stowing it in the luggage compartment.
