What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
My redlight week began in Pattaya—wow, at time of posting, that feels like a month ago—where my brother finished out his sex tourism odyssey from Sunday to Tuesday. We celebrated his conquests with the weekend roast at Robin Hood. They were voted the ‘best roast in Pattaya’ so while I waited patiently for the plate to arrive, my expectations were high.
The beef was as good as promised. I give it a 10 out of 10—at least in the “British” tradition. Americans typically don’t tolerate strands of fat in their beef, but this crabby Californian got used to it while spending a year living and working in Essex in the late 2000s. So I get it. The meat was beautifully pink in the center, brown and succulent around the edges. Whenever I eat a British-style roast, it’s hard not to imagine myself as a character in Game of Thrones, shoveling down a meal in some country roadside tavern, perhaps with a longsword resting against the back of my chair.
The gravy also gets a 10/10. One great culinary talent the Brits possess is making gravy. The “stuffing” appeared on the plate as a tiny, hard, round foosball. Now, full disclosure, American stuffing looks and tastes nothing like all other stuffing. American stuffing is a warm, moist pile of savory goodness, not unlike mashed potatoes in appearance and consistency. I’ve tried Irish stuffing, English stuffing, and probably a handful of other things chefs have called ‘stuffing,’ but none of it comes close to the yankee version.
The carrots were…just carrots. After years of scarfing down honey-glazed carrots at Shenanigan’s and Paddy Reilly in Bangkok, normal carrots are almost grounds for starting a riot. The cheesy cauliflower was on point, with a 1-to-1 C-to-C (cauli to cheese) ratio: perfection. The ham was a thick-cut, moist morsel of mastication-worthy meat. The roast potatoes were crunchy and golden on the outside, soft and supple on the inside. The lamb was fantastic, especially when paired with the house red. So I guess yeah, Robin Hood does serve the best roast in Ptown. I mean, I’ve only tried one other, but of the two, it ain’t even a contest. I don’t want to say the name of the other place because their roast was atrocious (atroastious for short, copyright BKK7).
After dinner we stomped over to LK Metro and hit Lady Love first, since on the previous visit there were no open seats. To be clear, there were lots of open seats, but half the bar’s seating is reserved for VIPs. There were two 10s in the first rotation and around half a dozen cuties sitting around waiting to go onstage. The customers consisted of 90% locals who call the gogo ‘home.’ They’re fiercely territorial, and seem preoccupied with holding onto whatever sad status they have as regulars. It reminded me of me, back in the Electric Blue days circa 2016. After a few minutes, I turned my attention to the girls to see many of them were topless. Tits-out is a titillating thing in the US, where most men are incels and rarely ever see a nipple in the flesh. They go to the strip club specifically to feast their gaze on tits’n’minge. But in Thailand, it’s redundant. I literally see dozens of tits every single day, and copulate three to five times per week with a series of women who each have a unique set of knockers. It ain’t special here.
A blonde with big fake ones and a back tattoo that extended over both ass cheeks ruled her rota. The left cheek had the face of a dragon and the right had a grinning Guy Fawkes mask. When she danced, the two faces seemed as though they were having a deep conversation. All to the tune of Depeche Mode, followed by the Eurhythmics. ‘Twas mesmerizing to witness.
Afterward, we tried Showgirls, where I’d not been in many years. It had a throwback vibe that took me in a mental time machine to 2018, before the world lost its collective innocence. Before every govt used Covid as an excuse to press tyranny onto the necks of the world population. Then we popped over to Queen Club where there were two fit girls and lots of chunk, to my bro’s delight. While in the loo I got trapped talking to a bloke who said a QC girl quoted him a 7,000b shorttime fee. I about wee’d on my shoes. The nerve of a nonhottie quoting 7k in Ptown…my God, what’s the redlight coming to?
On Monday, we hit up Patrick’s Steakhouse. It’s one of three steakhouses in a covered alleyway that runs parallel to Pattayasaisong 13. There’s also a great tapas joint there, plus a couple other eateries—enough that I’ve nicknamed it “Yum-Yum Alley.” In all of them—and every other restaurant in Ptown—there are crotchety old dudes with one foot in the grave, sitting alone and grubbing. They eat high on the hog every day, and for good reason: because each meal could very well be their last. The steak at Patrick’s was outstanding. I got the 200g Australian filet tenderloin. The slab was perfectly cooked, seasoned with just a little salt and pepper. I paired it with their blue cheese sauce and a South African cabernet. Post-meal, we hit Soi 6 so my bro could say goodbye to his two whores, and to hang with Jersey Dan at Bender’s one more time. I had a brief Thailand problem when I spotted a hottie in French maid cosplay getting food from a noodle cart. I tried to keep an eye on her to track her back to her bar but was waylaid by a pizza order at Slice. When I looked back, she was gone. Then I noticed the staff in one bar were all decked out in French maid cosplay, and assumed it must be her bar. Then I noticed a completely other bar further down the soi where the staff were also wearing French maid attire. Well, shit. From that moment, it was a Sherlock Holmesian mystery, solving the puzzle of which bar was the right one. After pacing back and forth between them for 10 minutes I finally spotted her getting molested by a middle-aged farang who had all the telltale signs of being in love. All the while, my friend Rainy, who sat in the bar next door, put the moves on a customer using the same flirtatious vigor that reeled me in a few days before (throwback to last week’s blog): the head-tilt, the bursts of laughter, the shy turning away-salacious smile combo. She’s a real pro.
Then we skipped to Walking Street where the idea suddenly hit me to take my bro to XS. It hadn’t occurred to me before, given all the hotskinny and dearth of chunk. But the second we sat down he locked in with a buxom broad with huge natural tits, and she kept him entertained for half an hour. I don’t think XS was his favorite, but he didn’t complain so I took that as a stamp of approval. Then the sib wanted to experience a Russian girls club so we skated up to take in the sight. 300b for a bottle of Singha. A very voluptuous blonde massaged my bro’s shoulders and legs for a bit, then quoted him 10k shorttime, 25k for overnight. Haha.
The Russian club was the opposite of a Thai gogo. In it, only one girl dances at a time (some have two or three) while the rest of the girls harass customers for drinks. The onlookers consisted of Indians and curious Thais, plus a few yakuza. I’ll say this for the Russian dancers: they’re fit. They cleary hit the gym in their free time, and they use the pole as a body-sculpting tool while on the clock. They’re a nuclear bomb of bone, muscle, and sinew covered in skin the color of milk, with the feel of silk. It’s a den of unabashed sexual treacle.
Then we stumbled into Moon so I could take a piss. We were the only customers. There were two rotations of five girls each, all chunksters. It was a weird way to end the night, gently batting away the aggressive hands of fatties and saying “no” to buying drinks for everyone in the joint.
On Tuesday my bro bid a tearful goodbye to Ptown and we schlepped back to BKK. After happy hour at Scarlett rooftop bar we went looking for a fatty on Sois 7 and 7/1 but none struck his fancy so we tuk-tuk’d to Soi Cowboy to say hi to Dennis at Dollhouse. And who should be sat in the booth next to us but Chris, former boss at XXX lounge. For some reason, I always run into that guy. I guess we have the same taste in redlight venues. Dennis and my bro got on like a house on fire. I suppose it’s because we all cut our teeth on the streets of Hollywood and West LA in our youth. I swear to Buddha, if Dennis didn’t manage the Dollhouse, I probably wouldn’t even set food on Cowboy. Shark has some good drink deals, but apart from them, DH is the one destination where I can see a handful of hot girls without getting ripped-off…actually Long Gun is pretty good, though as someone who hates the ping pong show, I can’t go there after 10 pm. It gets too gross.
On my brother’s last night in Thailand, we ponged, starting with black ruskies and Cuban RyJs outside K1. Then we popped inside to look for his chunky stage diver from the previous week. She wasn’t there so we necked our beers and slipped into KII where three newhotskinnies put on a pole clinic. Then we walked to Soi 2 to look for chunksters in the downstairs bars between Foodland and Pink Panther but came up empty. We even checked Crown Royal. They had one girl. So we swung into Virgin where a random Thai dude grabbed me for a quick wai as I passed. I’ve no idea who he was. Then every server took turns waiing while girls pointed from the stage, and I realized I’d only been in there three times in the past two months, after going there every night since it opened. Form them, it must’ve seemed like a kind of homecoming. The stage was packed end-to-end with…I’d guess 30 girls in a rotation. Cat Girl and Nat pranced around like the popular girls in an American high school. And why shouldn’t they? If gogos had tenure, they’d qualify. The new hot ass was astounding. Young, pretty, lithe, naughty girls I’ve never seen before preened and pouted like sentient sex robots. At the moment, between King’s Castle 1 and Virgin, it’s hard to say which Patpong gogo is the best.
After putting my sib on a plane back to Cali, I hibernated for 48 hours. On Friday, I woke up at 7 pm and still didn’t feel rested, but I pushed out t’Nana anyway. On arrival on Soi 4 I was surprised to see two freelancers outside 7-11 who I’d call downright beautiful. There was also a gang of hideous blafrican streetwalkers—not that all such ladywhores are gross. I’d never be that politically incorrect. Just these ones were disgusting, is what I’m saying.
My first stop per usual was to Angelwitch to say hi to Joey D, but he was locked in conversation with another local so I slipped in quietly to peruse the stage. There was a newbie—a Seven girl (ultraskinny) in one rotation. I foot-tapped along to “Old Time Rock and Roll” followed by “I Was Made for Lovin’ You, Baby” feeling the soft thrill of possibility wash over me again like an old friend. After a month in the US and a month of babysitting my bro, with my entire life on hold that whole time, this Nana visit felt like waking from a coma.
Joey came to chat for a bit after hanging posters for AW’s new drink specials: 75b Happy Hour beers till 22.00 Mon-Wed, 150b Jaeger shots, and 150b Fireball shots, plus adverts for their 24th Anniversary Party on 30 May. That shindig promises pork on a spit plus sides, drink specials and prizes. He was happy to tell me the bar had some new recruits (the aforementioned Seven girl being one). He mentioned a few local punters complained about too many chunksters onstage. To that I say, that ain’t why you go to Angelwitch. If you want to see a stage with 30 skinnies, go to Rainbow or Red Dragon. AW is about rock’n’roll and t’n’a. When I walk in there, I feel like I’ve wandered onto the set of a movie about LA biker gangs in the 1980s. It’s raw, it’s raunchy, and the girls are quintessentially imperfect, just like my soul.
In other gogo news, Private 69 has really come into its own. They’ve got a solid group of average-looking gals plus a small collection of hotties that accent the stage like candy sprinkles (hundreds and thousands for you limey bastards) atop a fat scoop of ice cream. 69 has a similar vibe to Shark Bar on Soi Cowboy. In both places, the staff exude a positivity that’s infectious. Maybe you wouldn’t take any of them home, but they’re sure polite. For the record, 69 has three girls I’d take to bed, which is a lot for a Nana bar, considering my standards.
Having said that, Red Dragon is killing it. Great Buddha’s bocce balls, what a gorgeous lineup. I tried to tally the tail and counted 10 superhotties before giving up. RD clearly has one of the best rosters in Bangkok. It’s too bad their PR team (one retarded asshole) is such shit. That joint should be packed to the rafters with punters, but their social media is run by a brainless cunt who 1—can’t take a compelling photo and 2—is more interested in using the bar’s pics to boost his company’s online presence. The Bangkok redlight scene suffers from a singular disease: owners who believe conmen when they say they’ll make their bar famous. So many fall for the schtick of snake oil salesmen, whether they’re young cocky Russians brand new to the scene or old, lumpy, dumb-as-rocks nightlife ‘bloggers’ who’ve been here for years. The latter, by the way, is the oiliest snake in Thailand. For Red Dragon—arguably the best gogo in the Plaza—to be half full at 21.40 on a Friday is a crime against mongering. But what do I know? Maybe they do OK, in spite of shitty marketing. All I can say is, this bar could and should be Number 1. I decided to bail before making a huge mistake like pulling five new girls into my harem—a thing I can no longer afford in semi-retirement.
Then I hit up Geisha, because my buddy Jack Nites said he peeked in earlier and things looked quiet. Not so at 22.00. Great googly moogly, friends. The rota was 15 hot bikini-clad dancers plus 10 magnificent naked fillies in the bath tub. I was, in a word, excipressed (excited and impressed, copyright BKK7). There was one skinny, filthy, tattooed vixen in the tub who, a decade ago, I would’ve rawdogged, throwing caution to the wind to tame that wild pussy. But in my old age, having dodged countless bullets (I’m still HIV-free, thank you Jesus), I don’t want to push my luck. Plus, these days, just eating a steak is exhausting. I don’t think I could keep up with newhotvagine. It was once my wheelhouse, but no longer.
I believe there are times when the universe winks at you. It happened to me in Geisha, when my mp3 player—set to shuffle—played three songs from “The Queen is Dead” in the same sequence that they appear on the album. That’s an astonishing coincidence.
Then I biked t’Pong for a black ruskie and banana Backwoods outside K1. I can always tell when I’ve been out of the redlight too long by the number of new staff who treat me like a tourist. Some dickhead on Silom Road offered me a ping pong show. New barmaids outside King’s pushed beers on me before an old mamasan shooed them away and guided me to a table. An Indian loose nut seller pointed at his bag’o’legumes like, “You want some of this?” No, douche. No. A lady ping pong barker asked me for beer money and I gave her a 50 just for recognizing me.
Here’s something new: a young Asian chick—clearly not Thai—walking the Night Market in a bikini top, short denim shorts, and sandals. What’s she doing here? Is she trawling for dick? Because that’s strictly Suk Soi 11 business. She passed me once, looking like she was searching for something. Then 10 minutes later she passed by again, this time seeming stressed. A ping pong barker approached her and she ducked away like a ninja. Female tourists in search of dick should go to Ibiza. There’s nothing for them in TLOS.
K1 and II were absolute nuthouses. The overflow of chicks and customers was astonishing. But not in the corporate, Disneyland-way that plagues places like Billboard and Butterflies. The King’s bars provide a personal touch that can’t be replicated in the unfun Nana fanny factories. I can’t explain it any other way. Patpong has a fun factor that doesn’t translate in the other BKK redlights. There are brain-dead fuckwits in the “nightlife scene” who would accuse me of being a “Patpong cheerleader” for saying that. But that’s because they can’t comprehend the concept of saying something true in a blog. They only know how to say what they’re paid to say. And ironically, these same marketing whores were recently hired by a couple of Patpong bars. And so now, they spread lies about these shittier, low-end gogos while shit-talking me for telling the truth about the King’s Group’s and Virgin’s dominance.
Which is why I say—truthfully, because I don’t get paid for what I write—the takeaway from K1 and II on Friday was, there’s so much new hot ass in there it actually made my brain hurt. From there, I called it a night. After chaperoning my brother through Pattaya for a month, I was too tired to keep ponging. As I swung through 7-11 for Saturday morning’s canned coffee, several fat faranks (farang skanks) sat on the steps outside, looking despondent. My heart leaped for joy. Yes, heffers. Rue the day you decided to come here. Go back to your home country and spread the word to your fellow fat cunts: do not come here. Thailand is not for you. Thailand is for us raunch rats.
Saturday started with a surprise: a new vagine (vajeen? I can’t decide how to spell it going forward) in my bed. The lady in question messaged out of the blue to say she missed me. I only got her Linebecause I was too drunk to stop myself. She’s a gogo dancer—I won’t say where—who turned up ready to work. When she arrived, she walked to the bed, stripped, and folded her clothes neatly on the edge of the mattress. I was spellbound. She put in a solid effort. My performance was…adequate. You know you’re an old bachelor when adding another notch to the bedpost musters a “meh” response. But she’s lovely, and petite, and naughty, and fun. What’s not to love? It was over in 10 minutes, which is my maximum exercise interval these days, and she was out the door. No decision yet on whether she’s harem-worthy.
Then I headed to G’s German for sausage and sauerkraut. Guido favored me with a new beer from America—Alesmith Brewery’s (from San Diego, CA) “X” Extra Pale Ale (5.25%). ‘Twas crisp and stoney with a hint of citrus and a wee kiss of bitter. Damn refreshing on a steaming Bangkok evening. He had two more beers from the same maker but I postponed them for later in the week and headed Pongward. Halfway between Sunrise and Soi 2, I was distracted by the sound of a guitar. Then I saw a sign pointing me toward a narrow alley. I followed it and found Groovin’ High Jazz Club—newly opened as of a month ago and fuckin’ A, what a sweet little spot. When I sat down, a Thai guy named Ben was crooning away while slaying on a guitar like he was channeling BB King. My jaw hit the floor. I flipped through their menu of signature cocktails—concoctions ranging from 390 to 560b (they also served beers). My mind spun as I tried to choose from the mouthwatering array of eclectic whistle-wetters. I settled on a “Sweet and Lovely”—Cuervo Silver, banana and Earl Grey liqueur, bitters. It went down like a spark igniting a fire. My 2nd was an “Angel Eyes”—Titos, Absinthe, dark beer cordial, cherry. After two sips, I was drunk as a skunk. The clientele ranged from shitty tourists to elegant hi-so Thais. To say I was underdressed was to understate. In short, the place isn’t just the tits—it’s Dolly Parton’s tits. After that, a Ponging seemed mundane. But I did it anyway.
The King’s II girls were randy as fuck. If they rubbed their minges up against me, it would’ve been less-subtle than the show they put on. Goddam, what’s going on? Is it because it’s low season? Why are gogo dancers practically chucking their cooters out like frisbees? It’s simultaneously awesome and terrifying. King’s Corner was an insane asylum. I counted three 20-girl rotations. I imagine some of those girls will move to the new gogo when it opens at the end of the month.
Virgin, per usual, was a clusterfuck of fuckable clusters. That place is sassy. The girls slather the stage with sex appeal like a Jackson Pollack painting.
And that’s how my week ended. I spotted two perfect 10s on Saturday, but I’m not telling you mofos where they are. I want them for myself. For the record, spending a month in Cali followed by a month of chauffeuring a sibling around Pattaya is exhausting and ridiculous. It feels good to be getting back to redlighting solo and doing as little as possible.
In random useless news, Derby King has erected a plastic rain roof above their seating area in the Night Market, and a new gay club called Beef has opened above Silver Sand, if you’re into that sort of thing.
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/
I’ve assembled a photo gallery for this post and placed it at the bottom.
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:
@bar_thigh
@BangkokNightli2
Thai chick-related posters and prints on canvas 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: There’s no shame in bailing on a Bolt motorbike taxi if the driver shows signs of incompetency-slash-drug use. If he nearly tips over, or misses hitting a car by a hair, he’s lost his fare. Although do pay the fare. It’s worth it to be rid of the dude and not die.
