What’s up, reader, how was your week? My name’s Seven, and this is my blog.
As you probably already guessed, the title of this post is a misdirect. But as I’m deliberately burying the lead, I’ll get to that later. My redlight week went similarly to every other week, with outings to all three RLDs here in BKK and per usual, there was plenty of TnA and PYT-petting to be had. Here’s how it all shook out…
Last Sunday after posting The Weekly, I hit Hemingway’s for their Sunday lamb roast. At 995b+ it ain’t priced to be routine. Rather, it’s a once-in-a-blue-moon treat. I paired it with a glass of shiraz (220b)—too bold for lamb in most cases but the meal’s richness on the whole made it a good match. The other wine-by-glass on the menu was a claret, and likely would’ve been better, but my plan was to smoke a Cuban Partagas on the terrace later and that requires a big red. The meal was enough to feed four. The lamb and wine were superb, as was the cheesy cauliflower. The rest of the plate was a pile of various root veggies, all resting in a puddle of tomato puree. It was a non-traditional roast, to say the least. After stuffing myself I moved outside and, as a weird flex, paired my stogie with the claret. From my seat, I could see straight across to the entrance of the Eleven Hotel, a kitschy new joint catering to a mishmash of international trash, plus the odd old expat and his Thai wife. For the most part, though, ‘twas a stream of rich millennials getting their eatpraylove experience for the year, more white chicks then you could chase off with a stick, and digital nomads with cropped beards…the 21st century version of yuppies. What would you call that? Guppies, maybe.
The cost of food at Hemingway’s is extortionate but the liquor is reasonably priced, and excellent, especially the wine and the bloody mary’s. Two tables away, a dufus American sat with his recently-acquired Thai girl on what was most likely a morning-after, getting-to-know-you date. She was statuesque, with sharp features and dark brown skin, and clearly the hottest girl he’d ever had. He babbled about himself, awash in post-coital bliss. By BKK standards, I’d put her at a 7, but he peackocked around like he’d landed a 10. I was happy for him. She’ll be a story he can tell his friends back in Oklahoma for years to come.
After the claret, I ordered a Ricard on the rocks, for the pleasure of watching the color go from clear to that of original flavor Life Savers, and to savor the memory of the north bank of the Seine, specifically a small, pink cafe across from Notre Damme. Walking from Hemingway’s to the bts I was accosted three times by shabby Africans (shafricans) pushing cocaine. I imagine their profits have dropped significantly since the decriminalizing of ganja in TLOS.
In a week’s time, the price of beer in half of Nana’s and Cowboy’s bars have increased by five baht. In some Silom locations (not gogos), HH prices are up 10. I moaned about it to my friend Lucky, who replied, “You pay pushy gogo dancers 100 baht just to leave you alone.” He’s not wrong, but this monger’s life rests on a knife’s edge of booze prices. One small change can topple the whole house of cards. Speaking of, G’s long-awaited Oktoberfest on tap ain’t cheap—275 for a pint. But damn, is it ever awesome.
On Thursday, I stood on my balcony from 16.00 to 18.30 waiting for the rain to stop. Then I walked t’Pong and realized I was too early for gogos, so I did a lap around to Thaniya (they really don’t want farang on that soi) and angled into G’s for my 2nd Oktoberfest pint of the week, just as the rain resumed. Feeling a bit peckish, I got bacon-wrapped shrimp—a dish Guido used to deep fry, but now sautees in garlic and olive oil. Magnifique. Given that G’s was full at 19.30 midweek during what is still low season, I’m guessing that come November I won’t be able to find a seat in there.
My Soi Cowboy visit began at Capone’s Pizza. This time I got a slice of Chicago-style deep dish pepperoni. ‘Twas like a combination of pizza and lasagna and I loved every bite. I would’ve ordered another, but an American tourist began talking my ear off and it was all I could do to wolf down the one slice and make a hasty escape. I got to Dollhouse at 19.55, fearing it was too early for gogo antics, but the party had already started and the joint was half-full of customers already. The first rotation of the night is always the chubbier one, and I had a moment of panic at not seeing my muse onstage. But then she emerged from upstairs, standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, surveying all that she’s queen of. My heart and my wang leaped for joy. One sad Japanese guy left before the rotation. I was a little bit sad for him, that he wouldn’t get to lay eyes on the DH hotties, but only a little and only for a second. If you don’t know the redlight rules, it’s your own fault.
Thanks to the TV show “Billions” I learned what a waist-to-hip ratio is and now I’m obsessed. On the show, the character Wags likes a woman with a .6, which is the classic, 1950s, Raquel Welch-esque hourglass figure. Thai chicks tend to be slimmer in the hips. For example, my pal Oil is a .75 because her pelvis is narrower than, say, Marilyn Monroe. Looking at my muse onstage, I put her at .65. And to my shock, four girls with .75 adorned the stage, all in g-strings, all tempting as a summer peach. Do I dare to? (TS Eliot shoutout). On the TV screens in Dollhouse was a ladies’ muay thai match. A tall farang was kicking a petite Thai girl in the face over and over. I watched with interest, hoping the Thai would beat the everloving out the white chick, symbolically doing in the ring what Thai girls the world over do to farang women the relationship-with-men department. When the diminutive Thai knocked the white bitch out, I actually stood up and cheered.
There are two kinds of gogo on Soi Cowboy—those that want customers, and those that want money. The ones that want customers have happy hours, keep all their price points as low as possible, and try to retain a crew of girls that the customers love. Dollhouse is one of those. So is Shark. Rainbow doesn’t have a HH but their team is stellar and the party always rocks. I slid in and sat with Bee for a spell. There’s so much hot ass in Rainbow, it’s farcical. On a whim, I popped into the newly-remodeled Venus bar. The décor is supercool and there was a trio of smoking hot girls in the mix. But 278b for a bottle of SML meant my first visit to Venus would be my last. And the barmaid asked for an extra tip, on top of the one I gave her, WTF?
In NanaP, Twister had two rotations of 30, each with half a dozen hotties. I spied no familiar faces, except for Nat who was already sitting with a customer. She kept trying to make eye contact, though for what reason I couldn’t say. Most likely she wanted me to buy her dinner, but I bailed before she could escape her customer and went to check out Bunny2 again since my friends Beer and Tong said they’d taken up residence there while WhiskeyNGogo remains shut. None of my exXXX friends were working, but the stage was packed with some very interixens (interesting vixens) all having a wild time. The vibe was a rogue wave of sexiness, in stark contrast to my previous visit.
It’s a long mo’taxi ride to hit two Nana bars. Longer still to hit two Cowboy bars. I’ll be glad when Black Pagoda and XXX Lounge reopen. Hopefully that’ll mean the old Pong girls who’re currently scattered over all three RLDs will come home, and then all will be right with the world. All week long, the 3 King’s were utter pandemonium. King’s 2 has established itself as a kind of VIP room adjacent to K1. It’s easier to canoodle with a girl in your lap in there. And with the side door open, connecting the two gogos, it’s an even more fitting description. If you hit K1 and there are no open seats, simply slip into K2 through the secret entrance.
The Pong isn’t for pantywastes. It’s the darkest of the 3 redlights. The Darth Vader of redlights. Vanilla cunts can’t hack it, and most of the old, soft, roly-poly expats of yesteryear probably don’t have the stones for it in its current state. Patpong is the anal sex of redlights. Those strictly missionary, make-love-with-the-lights-off types will not feel comfortable there. I see them in the King’s bars. I watch them and their mental squirming. Their squeamish psychology. Their fear of the unlit path. They shouldn’t be there. Nana Plaza is bright. They’ve security guards to protect you from yourself. Cowboy is a movie set. It’s R-rated Disneyland. Not so with Patpong. The Pong is a visceral preview of a post-apocalyptic redlight dystopia. A pornographic Blade Runner. My advice to anyone without a heart of darkness is to stay away.
On Saturday my harem girl was late, and departed just as the rain began to fall. I got stuck watching the deluge from the balcony again for an hour before losing patience and heading out t’Pong. The K1 girls were adorned in see-through white negligees and the customers poured in like a busted spigot. Like they were coming off an assembly line at a Japanese tourist factory. In fact, the whole of Patpong was lousy with the most yakuza-inspired, cyberpunk collection of Nipunters (Nipon punters). I never saw so many black blazers, top-knots, and superior attitudes. Any retarded American who thinks the US is racist needs to spend some time in Asia. To many on this continent, white people are around two rungs above stray dogs in the race rankings.
In King’s 2, the girls sported the same white lingerie. The K Corner girls wore red. In Pink Panther, a girl with an apple bottom was dancing on the circular stage by the door, and got a little too enthusiastic. Her bouncing backside knocked a customers checkbin off the counter. I posted pics of her in this week’s YouTube slideshow (link below). Bada Bing had some hew hotties, plus a few of the classics. Radio City’s lineup as some strong talent. Most are ex-Strip girls. I nightcapped with another Oktoberbest pint and Cuban cigarillo at G’s. Sometimes I get flack from other locals for spending so much time on the gay soi. But if the gay soi is where the best beer and Bavarian fare are, then you better believe I’m fucking going there. Plus, the gays in Thailand aren’t like the ones in California. They’re not waiting for their chance, or trying to convert the straights. They’re just regular people, sans agenda. In the US, I’m a homophobe, because most of the gays I ran across were some manner of dangerous. In Thailand, everybody lets everybody be who they are and that’s the end of it.
From time to time, people in Patpong give me random stuff. Last night, I was gifted two mangoes. I’ve no use for mangoes, so I gave them to Guido so he could whip them into a nice dessert for a couple of patrons.
In other news, gogo dancers continue to send me selfies and photos of themselves on holiday. I’ve collected this week’s crop to include in the slideshow.
Somehow I found time to barf out a couple new vodcasts on my YouTube channel last week. It’s an ongoing series I’m calling “MGThai,” in response to the MGTOW movement in the West. If you live in Thailand, you probably don’t know that Western women have become undatable. And I have some shit to say about it, hence the new series.
I’ve got a bunch of albums of photos taken inside the gogos over the past half decade. They’re for sale, along with some of my artwork at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Check back next Sunday for another summary of red-light events. In the meantime, you can read more about Bangkok life on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
Photos of everything in this blog can be found in the YouTube slideshow companion for this post at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
Follow me on X (Twitter) @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, and until next time, 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: With the lousy crowds in the redlights these days, us locals would do well to get in and out early. Either that, or wait and go late. The swell of swill happens like a bell curve every night, with the biggest crowds of cunts landing between 21.00 and 23.00.
