What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
In the title of last week’s post, I put the date as 11 April instead of 11 February, and it was a testament to my 10 readers that none of them bothered to contact me and point out my error. I’m serious—thank you for that. It means that either 1—you guys pay less attention to the dates than I do or 2—you figured, ahh who fucking cares? And that’s the kind of attitude I expect and appreciate from y’all. Cheers for that.
On Sunday, after posting the weekly I fell asleep on the couch for four hours so I knew, if I wanted to not lay awake all night, I’d have to get some liquor in me. I sped to King’s corner where they endlessly and effortlessly turn out newhotskinnies. Three, to be exact, on that night. ‘Twas an all-Nipon party, save for me and one other dude. Temperatures inexplicably dropped on Sunday and the evening was cool and breezy. Which is great. It’s too early for Songkran weather. Every joint onPong had stages at half-capacity on Sunday, which isn’t unusual. It’s traditionally the slowest night of the week in that redlight.
Two of the girls I’ve been eyeing in Virgin were there, putting in minimal effort. I sympathized. Sunday was a bit of a Chinese New Year hangover. In K1, an innocent-looking youngster too the stage and the term that immediately jumped into my head was “sex machine.” Stay on the scene. Goddam, what a piece of ass. And she was totally unaware of the fact.
Don’t ask me how I know this, but there’s a gogog dancer in the Pong who has the clap, and she gets barfined every night. Every time she shuffles off with a sex tourist, I wonder how he’s going to explain to his wife back in Osaka how she got chlamydia. The answer is, by dropping 6k to bang a tainted hottie in Bangkok. Wear a condom, fellas. Save yourself the divorce lawyer fees.
On two separate midweeknights, I went to Patpong and didn’t hit any gogos. Well, that’s not true. I did K2 and Virgin both nights, but that hardly counts. Instead, I spent the bulk of the time sitting outside K2 with a cigar and a glass of Leo. I mean, what the fuck is that? Like a goddam senior citizen.
I think I’m experiencing a metamorphosis. No, I’m not turning into a cockroach, with props to Kafka and the writer for Dave the Rave. My transformation is turning me into a fuddy-duddy. Maybe my wild oats are finally sown. It only took 16 years of wild abandon, from the redlights of Amsterdam in 2008 to Italy, France, Sardinia, and London, then Panama, Cambodia, and finally Thailand. Not to mention the hedonistic debauchery in my hometown of Los Angeles, that den of iniquity. I’m finally slowing down. Grinding to a halt. Wearing out. Having waxed, waning.
Whilst putting away a quiet beer in Virgin, three old Japanese dudes plopped down uncomfortably close and started dropping farts like it was Pearl Harbor all over again. The mamasan had a dozen girls line up on display like they only do for the Nipons. I felt sorry for any poor lass who’d have to endure their mustard gas attack. As for me, I necked my Heiny and bailed while holding my breath.
On Friday a skedaddled straight to Angelwitch to hang with Joey D and hear some tunes—REM, ZZ Top, Queen, “Rivers of Babylon,” good ole Murray Head, and then the fucking Doors. All my young life, I would spend my weekends on Sunset or Melrose in Hollywood, and to get there I’d take Laurel Canyon from my parents’ house in the ‘burbs. And for probably 30 or so years, Jim’s old house was empty, and someone had painted “Mr Mojorisin” on the boards that covered the windows. I actually didn’t know what it meant until I saw the Oliver Stone film with Val Kilmer as the Lizard King.
From there I swung in to Essence to say hi to my exXXX Lounge friends. Earn has cut her bangs (fringe for you Brits) and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was trying to make herself less-attractive. She put on several kilos, and with the nose job and lip injections she’s starting to resemble the Creature from the Black Lagoon. It’s a shame, because just two short years ago she was the hottest piece of ass in Patpong.
Then I stopped in at Bun Bun 2 as I’d not seen it since its opening week and back then they had a perfect 10 in the roster. On arrival the onstage crew were all heavy. But I was dutiful. I waited for the rota. Two aggressive girls tried to sit with me. I’m just a tourist to these Nana bitchez. I was the sole customer at 21.10 when many Nana bars are at capacity. The 2nd rotation was skinnier but not skinny enough to finish my Asahi. No sign of the 10.
Afterward, I schlepped all the way around the horseshoe and checked out Red Dragon. They continue to have the highest concentration of hotskinnies in Nana. In a 15-girl rotation, 10 were fit. That’s, like, 2015 numbers. The 2nd rotation was 100% chunk. ‘Twas a bold strategy, putting all the hot ones in a single group. The only open seat was a high top next to the stage. Across from me, a young farang couple was sat. The chubby female wore a black leather miniskirt and sat with her legs open, and I could see sll the way to the dark swamp she called a cooch. It made me throw up in my mouth.
As I went to exit the Plaza, just outside the beer garden I ran into an old Patpong dancer who grabbed me by the arm and told me she had switched to Geisha. She was high as a kite, and she held onto me like floating wreckage. I told her I’d come see her next week. She looked through me with that familiar yaba stare. Just then, Bangkok Prince swooped in and saved me, pulling me over for a drink on the Lollipop terrace. And that’s when the night started to turn blurry. I got introduced to a variety of dons from various mafias. All I remember was cufflinks and three-piece suits. Then I broke free and made for Dollhouse with haste. Their 22-Year Anniversary party was already in full swing. Dennis, the manager, handed me a beer and then I bumped into Jack Nites. We shot the shit for a bit while watching the eye candy onstage. Then I popped out to the terrace for some fresh air and realized I was overly drunk. I hadn’t eaten yet, so I stumbled round the corner to Capone’s and had two slices.
On the back of a motaxi heading Pongward, I looked up and noticed the moon, a rare sight for a monger who spends his time enclosed on all sides by skyscrapers. It reminded me I’m on planet Earth—a thing that’s easy to forget in Bangkok, a city that more closely resembles the town on Mars in the original “Total Recall” than anything a white dude might call Earth-bound.”
Famous people often talk about what it’s like to be in public and brush elbows with regular people. They say strangers recognize them as if they were old friends, but to the celebrity, those people are strangers. I experience something similar, on a notably narrower scale. Namely, only in the redlight. Everywhere I gogo, countless girls see me, do a double-take, then smile, then say “Sevennnnn!” and I’m supposed to remember how and why they know me. When they ask, “You remember me?” I always lie and say, “Ohh, yes, how are you?” before making a hasty exit.
OnPong, I popped into K2 and was accosted by Mina who unabashedly grabbed my ass and junk as if she was the pimp and not the product. I usually don’t mind being womanhandled—it just surprised me, coming from her. She’s usually quite shy.
After one cocktail I slipped onto the terrace for an Acid Blondie and got surrounded by a crew of Japanese superdouche who came out for a fag. They were all tattoos and LA baseball caps, like a parody of some film character they saw once. Mine came out and cajoled with them, hungry for some short-time cash.
After buying coffee for Saturday from Foodland, I was on my way home, but a girl outside Virgin shouted “Seven! Birthday party mamasan! You come!” So I squeezed inside and stayed for what turned out to be a pandemonious party. The birthday girl has four money sashes, eight cakes, a dude in a monkey suit…it was crazy (see this week’s slideshow companion below this post). The dancer who resembles my first and only Thai girlfriend from Ao Nang finally got drunk enough to make a move. She sat for three rotations and endured all my gentle molestations, so I got her Line. Pulling her into the gravitational orbit of my harem is inevitable at this point.
After trying and failing to find an open seat in K1, I circled back to the Virgin terrace for a double SoCo and a Kentucky Fire Cured. One of those Indian dudes who sell loose peas and peanuts happened by and insisted I take a free sample. I said I didn’t want any. He said, “Oh, come on.” I told him I wasn’t hungry. He spooned out two peas and one peanut. I didn’t want to fuck up the flavors of the cocktail and stogie, so I took the peas and nut, just to get him to go away, and placed them on the table. He got angry. “You will throw them in the street the second I leave!” For a moment I thought I’d have to choke out a Punjabi pea peddler in the middle of Patpong. Then he gave up and walked on, thank Vishnu.
Saturday started in the afternoon at Shenanigan’s with a black n’ smooth, a Fat Bottom Betty, and a build-your-own breakkie (kai dow, black pudding, mushrooms, asparagus, bacon, sausage, and hash brown). ‘Twas a balmy 34 degrees after a morning storm, and so I sat alone on the terrace in a pool of sweat. Funny that the fucking weatherman predicted a cold snap for BKK…when, motherfucker?
A group of about 15 boys ranging in age from 15 to 20 barreled into Shenanigan’s Snug, led by an older patriarch who quickly moved to a high-top on the terrace and ordered a cocktail. At first, I thought they might’ve been part of a massive family holiday. Perchance the women went to the floating market while the guys hit the pub. Then I noticed they jogged to and from their destinations—to the loo and back, to grab a menu and return to sit down—and clapped the whole time like it was a footie practice session. So then I thought maybe they were a sports team. Then they spoke in American accents, and I noticed they all dressed like church kids would dress at summer camp, so I surmised they might be missionaries. Then I stopped caring and enjoyed my cigar.
Here’s a first for this weary poon pugilist—two dudes sat down a couple tables away and chatted about their plan for the coming evening. I happened to overhear one of them say, “Well I read on Bangkok Seven’s blog that Virgin has good-looking girls.” Now, you’d think that would make me feel good. Like, holy shit, someone actually reads my stuff. Nope. All I could think was, Ah fuck, what if they go to Virgin and don’t like it? It’ll be my fault! And then I stopped caring and went back to enjoying my cigar.
Just then, the troop of white hairless monkeys in Snug all started screaming at the sporting event on the TV. Normally that would make me beat a hasty retreat, but instead I turned up my mp3 player and ignored them. Judging by the screams of “motherfucker!” they definitely weren’t missionaries.
After the stogie, I walked home, took a nap, and returned t’Pong at 20.00.
A coworker who’s new to the gogo scene met me in the Night Market and I chaperoned him through Virgin and a couple of King’s. It’s always good for an old monger to resee the redlight through the eyes of an uninitiated. He was actually hesitant to feast his eyes on the gogo stage, as if gawking at dancing girls in lingerie would be uncouth. I told him the girls want him to look. It took about half an hour for him to get comfortable with the concept of ogling, and I blame Western woke shit for that. Millennials and Zs have been trained to be cucks. It’s a mental disorder, and I’m here to say, the Bangkok redlight is the cure.
At half 10 my colleague bailed, and I trawled K2 and K1 solo. K3 was on point per usual. By the time I circled back to K2, Mina had been barfined already. In all 3 King’s, I had to shove young white yanks out of my way to get to and from my seat. You can always tell an American tourist because they act as though they’re doing the country a favor by visiting it. That’s partially due to a built-in optimism that is, quite honestly, magnetic. From there, though, they erroneously believe that magnetism makes them somehow deserving of privilege that other tourists don’t deserve. But mostly it’s due to being ignorant, arrogant cunts. And I can say that, because I’m an American.
In other news, Miami Vice—the four-floor adult playground on Silom Road next to the Sala Daeng BTS station (it’s not in Patpong, contrary to the stupid statements of human hemorrhoids on the internet)—has pivoted again. They’re now trying to do a ganja dispensary on floor 1, a nightclub on floor 2, a gogo bar on floor 3, and a gay bar on floor 4. I guess their motto will be “we’ve got everything for someone.”
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-related stuff 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.
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 (or tits) warm, your beer cold, and cheers to another week above ground in the greatest country on Earth: Thailand.
Pro Tip Post-Script: Don’t eat those loose peas and peanuts peddled by the Indians. They’re too suspiciously similar to drug dealers, who always offer a free first taste. For all we know, they marinade those legumes in crack.
