What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. Last week, I got caught up in all the White Lotus hype going on in TLOS right now. For one, it’s been injected into my Facebook feed multiple times per day. For two, the Thai govt just praised Lisa from Blackpink for her acting role in the series and its subsequent spotlight on Thai tourism. I’ve seen the first two episodes, and I have to say, I approve. The show does an excellent job of visually depicting what Thailand looks and feels like, down to the monitor lizards and annoying whooping call of the koel, as wells as the insistence of some Americans on telling people way too much about themselves.
There was one glaring error in the writing. It happened when two young white women say, of the abundance of old bald men in Thailand, that “the locals call them LBHs—losers back home.” Clearly, the line was written by one of those dirty farang clams who stare from the Patpong beer garden into the gogo with incredulity. Because in 15 years, I’ve never heard a Thai person speak disparagingly about the old bald white men who prop up the country’s economy. In fact, I’ve never known a Thai person to judge another by their appearance, or age, or lack of hair. Thais judge people by their actions. It’s the only slip-up I’ve spotted so far. The irony is, the character who makes the comment is a young female Canuck with a boyfriend in his 60s. She says the line to a young Mancunian lass with a boyfriend in his 60s. That they missed such clear hypocrisy is Captain Picard facepalm meme-worthy.
Still, as I said the show adeptly captures the vibe of Thailand, especially that secluded hiso resort vibe so distinct in place like Koh Samui, as well as the intolerable nature of Western tourists and their diabolical ways. I saw parallels with the kind of assholes I’m forced to rub elbows with in the Night Market and the booths of the gogos. Of course, despicable characters are at the core of the storytelling of White Lotus. It’s just so happens that regular, nonfictional tourists tend to be just as intolerable.
On Sunday while heading down to Silom Road I passed a farang couple that I can only describe as the new norm. The dude was short and scrawny, maybe 160 lbs soaking wet, dressed like a goth hunter s Thompson. His female was pushing 190 with skin so pale it was nearly translucent, save for the scattered array of tattoos that covered her body like a child scribbled in a coloring book with just the black crayon. I felt myself wanting to vomit, but I was on a mission. I had to hold it together. I passed up patpong and turned down soi Thaniya, ignoring the Nipon only clubs, and headed to smash burger. I ordered their blue cheese and bacon (390b) and a SML for 120. I’ve Posted a review on my Substack. I was shocked at the large clusters of vanilla farang tourists trapsing up and down Thaniya, including large families with children. What in the actual fuck are these parents thinking, bringing their kids to a Japanese minge buffet?
As I polished off the burger and got up to leave, I was accosted by a former staffer from Patpong Soi 1 who now works at a local nipon club. She insisted I come up for a drink. “But I’m not Japanese,” I said. “It’s OK,” she said, “you can go in.” They wanted 800 baht for 2 hours of free flow or one glass of Chang draft for 250. Which is steep, but I’d never been in one of those nipsclusive joints, so after the burger, I took the plunge. She led me to a small lift and up to the 2nd floor, which was decked out in old-fashioned Bangkok chic as seen in the movie “Only God Forgives.” First, they sat me down on a long sofa and paraded all the girls in front of me like I was fresh off the plane from Osaka. The lasses bowed and wai’d in unison, and then I was meant to choose one, because nobody sits alone in these places. I picked a tiny single mom named Mamaew. She spoke no English but we got on like a house on fire because 1–I speak Thai and 2–she’d never had a farang customer before. She told me all about her life and what it’s like to work on Thaniya whilst sucking down ladybeers like they were going out of style. When I went to pay and leave, everyone assumed Mamaew was going with me, even Mamaew. She was shocked when I said “No thank you.’ Clearly, these Thaniya joints are strictly for picking girls to fuck, while the bar tries to milk as much from the dude as possible in the way of booze charges before the barfine. I had to explain that I had no plans to fuck anyone, and was in fact heading to Patpong. They still asked if I wanted to take her with me. So I guess from the moment you choose someone from the long couch, everyone assumes you’re going to smash. I was unnerved at the thought, but I guess that’s what the nipons are here to do. Nobody tiptoes around clunge-pounding on Thaniya. In a move I totally expected, they padded the bill with an extra ladydrink. I let it slide, since I was a white fish in the wrong pond, thanked everyone, slipped a hundy into Mamaew’s bra, and beat a hasty retreat outta there.
Then I swam on t’Pong and K Corner, where I ended up sitting next to a beefy solo lesbian farang with dreadlocks and a big head bandana. Then a seat opened up near the door so I moved. As I sat down, two more farang clams stepped inside and scrutinized the stage with arms folded. A barmaid tried to guide them to a seat but they refused. They were just there to glower disapprovingly. Then a mamasan came over and said “Order drinks or get the fuck out.” They bailed.
I didn’t want to deal with the drama of the girls I have on hooks in New2 and New3 so I finished off a short evening on the K1 terrace with the usual cigar/cocktail combo. Twenty minutes on the terrace was enough tourist exposure to make me want to wretch. I cured it with the treacle of the K1 stage, a sight to behold on the night. ‘Twas a frenzy of fanny, and I spotted two future possible concs, should any of my current harem get lazy.
On Monday I’d planned to stay in, but a sundown rain shower cooled Bangkok to a serene temperature complete with a soothing breeze that worked like a mother nature massage for my psyche, so I flitted out to a little-known rooftop bar in Silom that I’d bet money no one who reads this post has ever heard of–and I want to keep it that way, so I’ll omit the name and just say that the view includes the Bangkok bank corporate building. That’s all the hint you get. I had a bottle of primitivo and my last drew Estate Liga 9 in solitude, with not a single other customer in the joint. It’s a uniquely serene scene, like the eye of a storm in this loud, bustling city. I made a mental note to take conc number one here one day.
Then I made my usual Patpong run, hitting gogos, smoking a stogie, smacking asses and massaging tits up and down the soi. These Days, the sino-nipons set are barfining girls out of the Pong like hotcakes. It’s a microcosmic, sexy version of the Belt and Road Initiative. Something I never considered before is the benign nature of the clunge de tante between the Chinese and Japanese customers in Thailand. It’s Asia’s version of Casa Blanca—in a world where both nationalities are rabidly racist towards each other, here at least is neutral ground. Chalk it up to the power of part-time pussy. And most of the time, that racist neutrality also extends to farang, but every once in a while it rears its ugly head. Whilst enjoying a cocktail in K Corner and taking in the rare sight of rotas in black lingerie instead of the usual red, a sino asked the staff to have me moved so he didn’t have to sit next to me. And yes, I did briefly consider breaking his jaw. But I also didn’t want to spend the night in jail, so I let it slide. That’s redlight rule number 6. Always let it slide.
On Tuesday I had to make a daytime Pong run for kamagra. Conc number 3 made an appointment for that night, and I wanted to make sure my junk would be up to the task. For the past five years or so, I’ve microdosed kamag almost daily, thanks to a large insatiable harem, and so have become somewhat dependent on it. More than anything, it’s a psychological crutch. If I don’t have it, I start to worry, and worrying puts me right out of the mood. Like a gun, it’s better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it. At 12:30 the film crew that’s been shooting in Patpong for a month was just packing up. The wardrobe room was emptied out, as was craft services, and I felt a glimmer of hope that they’re finally done filming. I’m sick and tired of having them in my redlight.
After securing the kamag I found my old usual seat in Shenanigan’s for a keto breakkie. I don’t hit up Shagz as often these days, now that I can’t smoke a cigar on the terrace, but the server remembered my build-a-breakfast by heart and brought me an Aspall without being asked.
I’m chagrined that I only brought back 2 packs of banana backwoods. They pair particularly well with a b ruskie. The flavor reminds me of eating chocolate covered frozen bananas on balboa island where my family spent a couple of summers before I hit puberty. Back then, I hadn’t realized that socal had the hottest girls in the entire United States. Today, of course, it’s a whole other story. At any rate, I call the cigar-cocktail combo a banaruskie. Whilst enjoying one outside New2 last week, an old Thai man passed by selling large cups of caramel corn for 20b. He blew snot out of one nostril like he gave zero fucks, and who could resist doing business with a dude like that? I bought five cups and gave them to the off-duty rota in the bar. On that night, Silom Road was crammed cheek to jowl with western families but the night market was somewhat subdued. Herds of farang meanderers here and there like lost buffaloes.
A k1 dancer whom I’ve known for years came to sit with me, but first she did a sarcastic exaggerated wai that confused the fuck out of the half a dozen customers sitting to my left and right. Then she and I had a long conversation in Thai that was interrupted by her very drunk fake-titted friend who stumbled out, grabbed the table, and spilled my drink everywhere. She apologized and started to pull money out of her knickers. I told her in Thai that it was no big deal and she should forget it. Then she did a one-knee wai, and the surrounding farang probably thought I was some kind of gogo godfather, when in truth I’m merely the Baron Von Pong.
There were a lot of young American slime balls onPong. Dudes in beards, unkempt hair, and black t-shirts exerting effort to swagger while rubbing their chins and looking simultaneously guilty and horned-up. A pair of such nitwits tried in vain to evade the ping pong barker that stuck to them like glue. They were too socially inept to politely decline his offers, and so played out a real-life version of Pac Man, weaving through the beer garden tables in a failed zig-zag pattern that got funnier the longer it went on.
I slipped into K1 where a single seat fortuitously opened up. As I made my way there a girl shouted my name. It was the lass from New3 who’s not taking my apartment invites seriously. She tried to sit with me but I shooed her away. Her friends teased her for being denied and she retreated to a corner to bury her nose in her phone screen. And this is part of the game. If they won’t pull the trigger, then all future drinks are off the table. She can live her gogo life without Seven’s gravy train. It’s a sad but immutable truth—sometimes you have to cut a girl off. They all come around eventually, and with two rotations of 30 girls each, there were plenty more fish for hooking. Or clams for shucking. Whatever metaphor you prefer.
In a new segment I could call “This Week in Stupid,” Bob the Knob—the blind, brain-dead, dick-sucking shit sack who now runs Dave the Rave posted a tweet complimenting the photog skills of Digital A-Gogo. There’s just one problem. Bob the Knob is Digital A-Gogo. So it was Bob the Knob pretending to be Dave the Rave, publicly complimenting himself. Jesus, what a loser. And to add insult to ineptitude, he replied to himself as Digital A-Gogo thanking himself for the compliment. How in the fuck did that douche nozzle think people wouldn’t see right through it? And how pathetic do you have to be to try it in the first place? A lobotomized monkey is smarter than that oozing pustule. And look, I’ve mentioned before that Bob’s mentally retarded. That’s obvious. And normally I don’t make fun of the retarded, but that dirty cunt deserves it. If he wasn’t a lowlife scumbag, I’d let him be. But he needs to be shamed, because he himself is as shameless as he is ugly, both inside and out.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is a series of close-up photos of the tits, asses, and fannies of gogo dancers in the redlight. The link is here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-some-redlight-tts-and-aes-and-fnnies/
but only if you become a Member. The price is $1 per month, and new content is added weekly. I’m too dumb to figure out how to link the weekly posts to a single button on my website, so I post the links on my social every Friday, and provide a summary of all posts at the end of each month. Sorry for the inconvenience.
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.
Thai chick-related artwork 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: Last week, I found it particularly hard to endure the relentless waves of unwashed foreigners ebbing and flowing throughout the throughways and byways of my redlight home. Then I realized that, barring the Covid year when I was in-country during the tourist ban, I’ve spent the past 10 Februarys in the US, as it coincided with my work holiday. Now that I’m retired, I’ll be forced to deal with the massive waxing tide of tourists at this time of year every year. Anyway, my pro tip is, if you loathe tourists as much as I do, plan to get out of here for Feb-March if you’re able.
