What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. Last week was my first full week in country after nearly a month in the US, and boy howdy was it ever a snoozefest. I think I’ve finally formulated the current State of the Redlight in a nutshell, and here it is: for decades, Bangkok’s three redlight districts could be described as follows: Cowboy had the hottest girls and the highest prices. Nana drew the biggest crowds and bore the same cold, corporate visage as WalMart and McDonald’s. Prices were mid, and so were the girls. Patpong was the place for the best-looking, most fun-loving girls, the wildest party, and the cheapest price tag. Not so, any longer. Cowboy is still the most expensive, but you’d be hard-pressed to find one hot girl in each bar. Nana is so mediocre, it’s laughable that any discerning monger would set foot in there. And in the worst turn of the screw, Patpong now has only four good gogos, and the girls in those bars—while the hottest in the city—quote obscene prices for a shorttime romp. A decade ago, I wouldn’t’ve been able to spend a night on my couch, for fear of missing out on the hot goings on in Patpong. Today, the couch is preferable. Compared to the thrumming adult paradise that Bangkok was for so many fantastical years, its current relight incarnation is nothing short of shameful. Still, I’ll subject myself to that dreck a couple nights per week, so that you have something to read on the toilet on a Sunday morning. Let’s hold out hope that moving to Ptown will provide some better entertainment—for me and, vicariously, for you as well.
My gogo withdrawal overcame my boredom with the BK redlight on Monday after a conc bj. (When she arrived, she saw the shipping boxes I’d procured for the move and asked, “Seven, what’s happening?” I informed her of my impending relocation and she started to cry. But God bless her, it didn’t affect her blowjob skills.) King’s 1 was packed to the rafters at 21.00. 80% of the stage were new faces, to me anyway. The girl I call “5k” on account of she quoted me 5k for shorttime has added around two kilos to her midsection, putting her in Seven’s disgusting range. The gal from K3 who’s currently subbing in K1 and who turned down a spot in my harem also expanded outward like a human blowfish. I barely recognized her. I guess that’s karma helping me dodge blubber bullets like Neo in the Matrix.
A newtanskinny made flirty with me but it’s all for naught. Once his old rat crosses over to Ptown, this will all be swept into the annals of redlight history along with every other good thing the Pong ever was. However, after seeing the sad state of those two magnificent sexbombs, I had to get out. I popped to the terrace for a Drew Estate Papas Fritas and b ruskie. The beer garden was high-season bustling with dozens of lookieloos lingering outside the K1 door. Everyone was noticeably lo-so. The budget crowd. The take-advantage-of-low-season-prices crowd. Lots of thick foreheads and cheap t-shirts. Lots of small spenders. Hey small spender! Spend at least a dime on sleaze. I did count half a dozen barfines whilst sitting there. All Nipons. I spied a dozen new faces in King’s 2. Half of them were 8s. The winner again, though, was K Corner and their stage teeming with superhot sex machines.
In my years-long redlight odyssey I’ve found that a personal soundtrack is crucial. It’s why I always wear earbuds to block out the auditory dross of the DJ in favor of the songs of my life. On the night, it was mostly cover tunes of bands I love by other bands that I love, eg Smashing Pumpkins covering Depeche mode, and Depeche Mode covering U2. One outlier was Vampire Weekend’s Horchata, which was the theme song for my 2009 journey through Central America. It’s when I fell in love with tropical climes and white sand beaches. It’s also where I met a Vietnam vet who first planted the idea in my head to check out Thailand. So it all comes full circle in the old earbuds.
As the weekend loomed, I Ponged again, mainly to eat at Derby King, but also to get out and watch the dirty budget tourists take in the gogos and ping pong shows. After a plate of spare ribs, the King’s 1 boss insisted on buying my drinks, and I didn’t argue. I had three mini Romeo y Julietas so I reclined on the K1 terrace to smoke and scowl at the riffraff. In the USA, when kids take the bus to public schools, there’s a special bus that picks up the retarded ones. It’s smaller than the regular bus, and Americans refer to it as the “short bus.” Low season in Bangkok brings out the “short bus” version of tourists.
It was wais and fist bumps from all the Thai staff and dancers coming to work. Of the handful of things I’ll miss about BKK, my notoriety in the Pong is one. I like the prestige that comes from being one of the longest-running consistent Pong mongers (Pongongers for short) to ever hit the scene. Off the top of my head, I can only think of two other dudes who’ve been Ponging as long or longer. And they both would prefer I say no more about them in this blog.
The old African freelancer who used to lurk the back-alleys of Patpong for years and years made an appearance and briefly tried to panhandle a mini Cuban. I shook her off like shooing away a fly. Then I went inside K1 to case the joint. A gal I’ve known for a decade, who got hot and then fat and is now working her way back to hot was there, after a prolonged absence, with a new back tattoo, which she allowed me to photograph in the toilet. I’ve posted it to my X account. Then I flitted to King’s Corner to check on the veterans, most of whom are ex-Black Pagoda girls. I counted four new hotskinnies, all of whom were breathtaking. If I was new to the scene, I’d be driving myself into the poorhouse barfining and shorttiming all the supermodel-level clunge in the King’s bars. I say it every week and it bears repeating. No one has hot, fit girls in the numbers that the King’s Group does. No bar in Nana or Cowboy or the rest of Patpong can hold a candle to them.
Every girl onstage in King’s 2 was new to me. Where in the everloving are these chicks coming from? Actually, I assume it’s the other redlights. Their tattoos and slutty moves betray that they’re not new to the gogo. They’re redlight red rovers, if you remember that children’s game. Red rover, red rover, send new clunge right over. A mamasan sidled up, tapped my shoulder, and indicated toward the stage. Not to offer me minge, but to ask if I approved of the lineup. I gave her a thumbs up and that put a smile on her face. A skinny fake-titted wench punched my shoulder. It was a gal who turned down a harem spot months ago. Why is she mad? I gave her a golden ticket to the Seven gravy train and she balked. It’s her fault, not mine.
In Virgin, I was accosted by the hungriest clams that I’ve encountered in a long time. It’s what I call the afterglow of low season (afterlow for short). Those gals who didn’t make rent this month are the life preserver for a floundering monger, if he had no harem to cling to. But since I do, none of these desperate gash-slingers wield power over me. I pity the harem-free man who comes through these bars. He’s chum for the she-sharks in these waters.
On Friday it started to piss down at around 18.00 which for me meant it was a perfect time to sit in Patpong with a cigar. First, I hit Sunrise for a margarita and giant plate of nachos. It’s hard to find good ritas in Thailand that aren’t 900 baht. Sunrise does a good one. I know because the first sip instantly takes me back to my uni days and spring break at the Rosario Beach Hotel in Baja, Marlon Brando’s favorite getaway spot, among other stars of that golden age. The soundtrack for my meal was “Death” by White Lies, the dumbest song of the last two decades sung by one of the only good bands to come out in that time.
Then I pushed on to the K1 terrace and glimpsed the most beautiful scene a local monger can see—a nearly empty beer garden, thanks to the rain and early hour. I knew it’d fill up soon, but for a few precious minutes, I had the Pong to myself, along with the girls arriving for work. I ordered a double ruskie and sank into the chair, letting the Liga Privada Number 9 do its work. The K1 boss, per usual, picked up my drink tab. The little bald Cheap Charlie who I haven’t seen since before my Cali trip showed up, not to buy a drink but to just shoot the breeze with the chubby hostess outside. I peg him as a local English teacher, likely on an average salary like 30k a month. And I’m not disparaging anyone in that position. Once upon a time, I was one of them. But back then, I had enough sense to stay out the redlight until I’d saved enough to make a respectable showing, tipping and buying ladydrinks, etc. I have no respect for dudes who come to the gogo broke and try to eke out a feel on a boob, or do a lap in the bar and leave. Come correct, or don’t come.
I had a vodka soda inside K1 with a view of a rainy night roster, which is to say, eight gals onstsge, to the tune of The Smiths’ “Sheila Take a Bow” in my headphones (come out and find the one you love), before flitting over to King’s Corner. The lineup in there is stupid hot, and by that I mean, they’re so ridiculously sexy that your brain temporarily freezes at the sight of ’em. Like a glitch in the sex matrix (sextrix for short). Your eyes disbelieve what they’re seeing. It’s a cornucopia of comely clunge. A parade of pulchritudinous poontang. A gaggle of gorgeous gash. A menagerie of magnificent minge. A horde of heavenly harlots. A smattering of sensational sluts. A flock of fuckworthy femmes. A forum of fit fillies. A bevy of beguiling bitches. A bastion of bonny babes. A quorum of crazyhot clams. A team of titillating T n A.
Virgin has the makings of a whole new harem in their roster. I’d gladly conc up half a dozen chicks in there, if I weren’t escaping to Ptown in a matter of weeks.
In other news, I returned from Cali to find that Silom had acquired a homeless farang. He sports a baseball cap, t-shirt, shorts, and that’s all, and can be found sleeping on Silom Road near the Bangkok Christian Hospital rebuild by night, and walking around Sala Daeng station by day, mumbling angrily and incoherently to himself. He seems harmless enough for now, but it makes one wonder why the police and/or Immigration haven’t scooped him up and dropped him over the Burmese border already. He hasn’t approached me for money yet, but if he does, the only thing he’ll get is a swift kick in the nuts.
Pursuant to a continuing topic in my posts—that of the mysterious deaths of several gogo dancers in my sphere—the cause has finally come to light. If you’ve read my recent blogs, you’ll know that I’ve been worrying over what seemed at first to be a mysterious epidemic running through the redlight scene. In the past three years, four of my dancer friends have died of an unnamed illness, and four more are currently hospitalized. Now, it seems, the only reason it was unnamed was due to a loss in translation between me and other concerned parties. Spoiler alert: it’s what you expected.
The other night, I was chatting with another local monger who mentioned that his girlfriend of eight years had died. “Jesus,” I replied. “What killed her?” All he said was “Ketamine.” Then I started putting the pieces together. I mean, I’ve long known about K and that the girls use it liberally, but I didn’t realize it’d reached a point where it was killing them off in pairs and trios. Then I said to him, “Did she stop eating, get really thin, and then just…expire?” “That’s exactly what happened,” he replied.
Unsurprisingly, it’s not a mystery disease. It’s Ketamine. So there are multiple epidemics afflicting the Bangkok redlight at the moment: Ketamine abuse, Lo-So raggedy tourists, and obscene shorttime prices. Ain’t it all just a kick in the balls.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is Part 2 of my 2018 Snapshot series. The link is here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-2018-snapshot-part-2/
If you’re not already a Member, though, you can’t see it because Stripe—the service that processes my subscriptions—has closed my account, thanks to some Aussie cunt named Greg Hawk, who signed up as a Member and then when the monthly $1 charge came, disputed it with his bank instead of unsubscribing, the twat. This started a chain reaction that at one point had someone at Stripe deciding photos of gogo dancers constitute “sexually-related content” and they cut me off. Thanks Greg, you piece of shit. So until I can find a new host for the photo archive, no new Members can join. Current Members should still have access, at least till the end of the month. Apologies to anyone who recently signed up. Stripe and Greg Hawk have fucked you (and me).
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.
I’ve started to sell my artwork in digital download bundles, so if you fancy some gogo dancer-related pictures, mostly nude Thai chicks photoshopped as paintings, you can get ‘em on the cheap at my Etsy shop: https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
Right now I have several bundles of four to five pictures each (as shown below) for under $10 US apiece.
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’re a lone bachelor monger (bachelonger for short) like me, you might struggle with condo stank. I get my place cleaned top to bottom every month, launder my sheets weekly, spray Febreze liberally, and yet my apartment persists in smelling like—I don’t know what you’d call it—I guess ‘dude.’ Recently, however, I found a solution. When I was a kid, I was obsessed with cinnamon flavored candy—Red Hots, Hot Tamales, and I chewed Big Red gum like a fiend. On my last Cali visit, I ordered all of the above from Amazon, and when I got the gum back to my place and opened the pack, within minutes my entire apartment was filled with the pleasant aroma of artificially flavored cinnamon. It’s like sniffing the breath of God in my place now. So if you’ve got a stinky abode, and you like cinnamon as much as I do, and you want an easy way to spread that crimson love around your house, order a bulk pack from Amazon. It works better than incense.
