What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
Last week, I didn’t leave my apartment much…except to Pong several times and cruise through NanaP and Cowboy one time each. There’s been no respite from the heat so far this December. It’s been a sweltering month in the redlights. And sweaty hordes of visitors/lookieloos don’t help. A few days ago, a dude messaged me on X and said, “I’ve heard the tourist traffic still isn’t back to pre-pandemic numbers.” Well sir, find the person who told you that and punch them in the balls, because this place is fucking bonkers. Bangkok’s RLDs are back to early 20teens crowds, and by that I mean insane, ridiculous, frenetic mobs of drooling, knuckle-dragging primates crowding every corner of the gogo bars to the point that locals like me want to scream. Before the scamdemic, the tourist numbers were down. Tinder, woke feminist ideology, and a global economic downturn contributed to slowing the stream of visitors to a trickle. Post-travel ban, the unwashed masses who hunkered down in terror for two years waiting for permission to enjoy life again all collectively decided that that Thailand trip they’d put off for decades was finally the thing to do. Bangkok’s back to its old, notoriously crazy self this high season.
And I don’t know which kind of foreigner I hate more—the first-time sex tourist who bumbles through the redlight like he’s never left the family farm before, or the shitbirds who’ve hit the same gogo four nights in a row and so think they own the joint. To be fair, I was that guy, back when I first moved to TLOS and spent every weekend on Disappointment Street in Ao Nang. So I get why it happens. A dude who’s never in his life had a girl look his way suddenly gets attention from a gaggle of whores, and all he has to do to keep the dopamine hits coming is to buy drinks. He wakes up the next morning feeling better than he ever has in his life. He’s found the thing that’s been missing all those years—the affection of young females, and he wants to keep that feeling going. So he runs straight back to that gogo as soon as the sun sets and waits outside for the doors to open like it’s a Christmas Eve sale at ASDA. To his shock, they remember his name and greet him with open arms. No woman has ever been this good to him—not even his mum. And now, six gogo dancers shower him with small morsels of gratification. He even barfines one and experiences five minutes with the hottest body he’s ever laid his sad depraved hands on. What can he do the following night but go right back again? He walks in with his arms above his head—a ‘V’ for victory—soaking up the welcomes as if he’s the only likeable dude in Bangkok. He smacks a bunch of asses and tongue-kisses anyone who gets close. I observe it all from a dark corner. This is how far my mongering has evolved. I want to go unnoticed.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame the newly-anointed monger for what is a natural transformation. He can’t help but take those early embarrassing steps. It’s the arrogance that I find unpalatable. In a perfect world, every country would be a patriarchy, and these poor sods wouldn’t need to climb on a plane and fly for 20 hours to get attention from women. And I suppose if he stayed longer than a month, he’d eventually realize that these lovely vixens shower everyone with the same level of adoration. I guess that means I do know which foreigner I hate more…it’s the ignorant first-timers who do no research ahead of time and so find the redlight completely bewildering. They expect the Thais to babysit them through the experience, which they will do…but what kind of man is that? An adult baby.
Anyway, here’s how the week shook out…
On Sunday, I laid on my couch all day nursing an arthritic elbow. Then at 21.30 I decided to do a quick Pong. The evening was hot as balls, and the Night Market looked like it was overrun by escapees from a lunatic asylum. I hit the 3 King’s, which were all full to the brim with hotties. But the King’s girls avoid me now. They wai and bow, but then steer clear. It’s for one of two reasons, as far as I can discern. Either one girl has claimed me (it might be Ice) or they all know at this point that I don’t barfine, or buy drinks outside my galpal zone, and they need to make money, so I’m a non-starter.
Sunday was Sino-Nipon hell in the Pong. A veritable north-Asian invasion. And they behaved badly. There was lots of screaming and groping, which is acceptable in the redlight, but somehow these cunts manage to convey a level of unspoken disrespect, no doubt from centuries of ingrained racism. They look down their noses at the Thais, and it can be hard to watch.
Later, I popped over to G’s to try one of their new beers—a St Austell Proper Job IPA from Cornwall. And damn if it didn’t taste exactly like how a British IPA should. The English make beer that is at once strong, approachable, delicious, complex, and nostalgic. One sip instantly transported me to my former local pub in Essex, and at the same time recalled nights spent in Bournemouth—specifically, the time I went on a drinking spree with members of the band Long-View (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KmmCVAv2YFw). We got so smashed, we couldn’t remember where we parked the car, and had to sleep in a churchyard.
On Tuesday I Ponged again, but the events of that night are mine alone. I choose not to share them with you, sorry-not-sorry.
I will say that early on I was back at G’s for another of their new crafties—a cacao stout from Chiang Mai of all places. I paired it with a Drew Estate Java Mint stogie. After lighting it, I took a swig of the stout and for a second, my mouth got tricked. I actually thought I’d bitten into a bar of dark chocolate. I instinctively tried to chew. And paired with the dark choco-minty awesomeness of the cigar, ‘twas a match made in heaven. One word of warning about these dark craft canned beers—they cause horrific gas. So don’t polish off two of them a few hours before your harem girl comes over. You’ll spend the whole time clenching your butt cheeks, praying you can perform without a mid-coital volcanic ass eruption while hoping the whole nightmare ends sooner rather than later, so you can let go of the gurgling toxic cloud wreaking reeking havoc on your sad, aging bowels.
There was a bit of drama at NanaP on Tuesday. Several Thai security staff were stabbed by a couple of cunt Russian tourists. It all started when they didn’t like the look of their checkbin in Billboard. The Billboard staff let them go without paying, but someone must’ve alerted the guards at the Plaza entrance because the ruskies were stopped and told to cough up the cash. Instead, they opted to stick a few guards with knives. Personally, I respect Russian badassery—in Russia. But you can’t come to Thailand and act like you’re still in Moscow. Those shitbirds need to get buried on Koh Larn. Don’t fuck with Thailand, motherfuckers.
On Thursday I smoked a cigar outside K1 per usual, then made a beeline for Virgin where a short, creepy bald farang stalked around the stage inspecting the girls like he was buying a cow at auction. He had his eye on Nat, who noticed him and began moving around, hiding behind various other dancers, which is a girl’s only defense when she doesn’t like a customer, short of hiding in the loo. She kept glancing at me, no doubt hoping I’d rescue her by having her down for a drink, effectively cockblocking the weirdo. Which I would’ve done, but right then the rotation happened and she ran off to the locker room. The dude actually tried to follow her but was stopped by the bar staff. They cornered him near the men’s toilet so Nat ran around the other side of the stage and jumped in my lap. I spent the next 30 minutes playing with her glorious fake tits. Whoever nicknamed breasts “fun bags” hit the nail on the head.
Then I moved to K2, where my worst nightmare played out. A lone newb sext tourist engaged me in conversation. He was an American chatterbox. He told me how, the night before, he short-timed a girl in Nana for 6k and that was not including the barfine or the hotel. I about spat out my drink. He narrated how, when they got to the hotel (half a block down Soi 4) there was a wait. He sat in the lobby with a handful of other sad sods and their recent purchases, all hangdog and horny and seeming to regret their decisions. When his turn finally came, it was clear the sheets hadn’t been changed. He banged his girl in a warm, wet spot on the mattress, finished in just over a minute, and had to walk back to his actual hotel because he’d spent all his money and couldn’t afford a taxi. It reminded me of the time I lost my wallet in Samui and had to walk back to my hotel. As I staggered down the road (this was in Lamai), a random girl pulled up on a Scoopi and offered me a ride. She drove me the rest of the way, and without being asked, accompanied me to my room and spent the night. In the morning, she was gone but all my stuff was still there. God bless the Thai people. I told the K2 stranger that I had to take a leak, and when he wasn’t looking, I dove through the side door into K1. It’d been a while since I actually sat down in there. These days I just smoke on the terrace. I forgot how hard that place rocks. The customer ratio was 90-10, Japanese to everyone else.
On Friday I made it to NanaP by 19.45. I had a plate of Stumble Inn kow pad in the beer garden. The last several times I’ve arrived at the Plaza, there’s been a large crowd of idiots standing around, clogging the entrance. It’s a mix of gawkers who’re too scared to actually go inside, and morons trying to suss out whether or not there’s an entry fee. I weave through them like Pac-Man, wocka-wocka, and reveal the contents of my bag to the security guard who’s already bored with my meager possessions, shake hands with Geisha’s boss, who posts up at the security station for the first hour of every evening, and then hop to the garden—or Angelwitch if it’s open.
As I sat there munching on my fried rice, a lovely Twister hostess emerged and took up a perch on a stool across from me. She was young and lithe, with dark hair down to her waist and a wide, white smile. A portly Indian dude approached her while not looking directly at her, but inching slowly in her direction. Her smile immediately changed to a look of worry and she began to ease one butt cheek off her stool. Then while staring at his phone, the guy took one large step sideways toward her and she leaped away like she was dodging a cobra bite. He then turned and ambled away, still looking at his phone. She returned to her perch and laughed as a barmaid chided her for her overcaution.
Sitting next to me was a 50ish bald bearded tatted-up American with his date—a very overweight, average-looking Thai in her 30s. He spent the whole time trying to communicate. Her English was bad and his Thai was worse. She just giggled at everything he said, while he made zero progress. I think I’ve figured out why Yanks choose unattractive women in Thailand. They believe the current woke feminist lie that says 1—they don’t deserve a hot girl and 2—if you don’t go for a fatty, you’re fatphobic. Whatever. It just means more sexy chicks for me. Please, beta cucks, keep dating the dregs. Maybe the feminazis are right: you don’t deserve someone hotter.
As I shoveled the last bite of rice into my gob, my buddy Oil message to say she could see me. I looked up and spotted her on the Twister terrace. I didn’t think she’d be working because the previous day she’d had a wart removed from one ass cheek. But there she was, eating karhtom while standing up, with a big bandage on her butt. I sauntered over and got roped into buying sojus for her and her friend.
Then I swung up to Geisha, where six Japanese and one farang were sat round the bath tub. One particularly unwashed-looking Nipon tried stuffing his fingers into every orifice that got within jabbing distance. Meanwhile the stage was adorned with 15 fetching, bikini-clad dancers toe-tapping and hip-swinging to The West’s finest dance tracks…”I got a missed call from yo beeeitch, she say she wanna suck my deeeick.” Thank God for the deliberate dumbing down of America. I necked my SML and slipped outside to chat with the off-duty girls. I asked a couple chickies for a photo. They said, “Cannot,” but then a mamasan came over and told them, “This is Seven. He can do what he wants.” I included the pic in this week’s slideshow companion (see below). One was quite fetching—a petite blonde with pert titties. The other had something crazy going on with her eyebrows and a very unflattering nose job.
Then I trotted down to Angelwitch but the second I walked in, three girls all said at the same time “Joe’s not here.” And so I hopped a mo’taxi to Cowboy for a beer in Dollhouse. The place was so crowded, I got relegated to the upstairs spillover section where nude lasses writhed seductively on poles in the low-lit sexual aura that seemed to curl around every corner like smoke. I spoke with DH’s boss Dennis, who said the place was even crazier the night before. Everyone was asking after Jack Nites, who is typically tipping back a beer around that time on weekends. I ran into Mike, another BKK barfly and pal of Jack’s who said he was spotted in Stumble Inn Soi Cowboy (previously Oasis). I peeked inside and sure enough, there he was at a table of five guys, engaged in deep conversation. I decided not to interrupt him and instead headed toward Rainbow. But when I got there, I opted to head Pongward instead, where the redlight was in a state of chaos. Friday was the first night of the newly-approved 4 am closing time for entertainment zones, and for some reason that sent the local cops into a conniption. Virgin had cleared its front of off-duty dancers and litter (yes, they were afraid of litter violations) and shut their curtains for the first time, giving me a perfect opportunity to smoke a Kentucky Fire Cured with a SoCo on the rocks. Getting the cocktail was the most difficult part, I think because I’m literally the only Virgin customer who orders SoCo. I went straight to the register and ordered it myself, pointing at the bottle on the shelf. Best and Nat ran over and tacked two tequila shots to my bill.
Despite the heightened tension, Virgin looked fantastic. The girls emote the kind of enthusiasm I haven’t seen since the Electric Blue days. In fact, as far as I can tell, the folks behind Virgin have made only one misstep: hiring gay bar staff who push customers to buy them drinks. And I know you can’t hire based on sexual orientation, but gays and ladyboys do not belong in straight gogo bars. We tolerate them because it’s par for any course in Thailand but fucking fuckity fuck, there is nowhere less-suitable for LGBTQIAPSLMNOP motherfuckers than a joint men regard as a bastion of heterohedonism. If I want to buy a gay guy a drink, I know where to go, and Virgin ain’t it. Not to mention, they ask not once, not twice, but several times. If I said no the first time, the answer’s not going to change. Speaking of change, my pushy gayter (gay waiter) took my checkbin—which was 590 and which I paid with 600—and didn’t bring back my change. That’s what we in the biz call a “dick move.”
And speaking of LBs, I think I finally understand dudes who like them. I met a Brit (they’re not always British but much of the time, they are) who explained that he’s gay, but still appreciates the aesthetic beauty of women. So for him, getting with a ladyboy is like having gay sex, but with a beautiful woman. If you can flip your brain inside out like a stained jumper, it sort of makes sense.
I do have one other problem with Virgin, but it’s of my own making. After I’m a few cocktails deep, I start believing I can fit half a dozen of their dancers into my harem rotation. Which is actually impossible, because 1—there aren’t enough days in the week and 2—I physically can’t perform that many times. I can barely keep up with the current crew.
Afterward, I sped over to Soi 1 to see how they were reacting to the keystone copper controversy. Radio City just shut outright, from sheer terror. The 3 King’s were all popping off as normal. Turns out the King’s Group has nothing to fear from the police.
Speaking of the King’s, I got to the bottom of why the girls in there ignore me. This high season, the opening short-time quote by any King’s gogo dancer is 5k. And the goddam Japanese pay it without flinching. It makes me even more grateful for my harem, who never put the squeeze to me. Actually they probably know that if they did, they’d get booted off the gravy train but quick.
Speaking of harem girls, my Saturday appointment showed up two and a half hours late and then stuck around doing her makeup and chatting about nonsense till 22.45. I practically had to push her out the door. The end result was, I didn’t get out to the redlight.
In other news, it’s been a weird month for my social media. It’s the 2nd month in a row of gaining and then losing exactly 300 followers every day on Twitter/X, and for no reason I can fathom, people have started following my Facebook, which has sparked a new distraction: dumb ass comments from randos. Now, I like a “good pic” or “she’s hot” comment as much as the next redlight poster. It’s the other crap that gives me a headache. I’ve come up with four categories of shit commenters: 1—Mr. TMI. This sick douche says stuff like “Oooh, I’d give her every inch” or “I’d love to tongue that ass.” 2—the snobby critic. As if anyone gives a good godddam, he takes the time to post his shitty opinion, eg “Meh, she’s not that cute,” or “Tattoos are so ugly.” 3—the expert retard. He births gems of whatever the opposite of ‘wisdom’ is, like “That’s clearly a ladyboy” or “I can tell by this photo that she has the clap.” No, fuckface, you can’t. And 4—the dude who doesn’t know how the internet works. He thinks that when he comments, he’s talking to the girl in the photo… “Hello dear, yu are so beatifull I wan meet u now please” or just the crude “How much, baby?” By the way, if you can still see my FB posts, it means you haven’t sent any comments like the above, because I block the fuck out of every one of those dumb sons of cunts. I do the same on Twitter.
Here’s a crazy story. While stopped at a long traffic light (10 minutes, holy Christ) my Grab driver said he had to pee. I said, OK you want to find a hotel or petrol station? He whipped out his wang and pissed into an empty water bottle. One star, motherfucker. One star.
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 about Bangkok life 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.
Starting today, I’m going to embed the slideshow companion for posts at the bottom of the post (scroll down). 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.
Pro Tip Post-Script: If you’re over 30 and nobody hates you, you haven’t done anything significant with your life. If good people have you, then you’re a cunt. If cunts hate you, you’re doing something right.
