What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. Wow, what an epically shitty Songkran week that was, ay reader? Those ruddy cunts got started on Saturday and didn’t let up until Wednesday. Fucking hell, what a nightmare. I sat out for all of it, but couldn’t escape it even in the confines of my apartment. Every 3rd Facebook post in my feed was some bleach-skinned fake-titted Thai girl dancing in a bikini while getting doused. Songkran is like Halloween for American sluts. It’s the only time of the year where the girls can hit the street half-naked and not get shamed for it. And every half-decent looking Thai clam now fancies herself a “Digital Creator.” They all look exactly the same, and they all turn out the same content. And they all have millions of followers, despite the fact that none of them possess anything distinct or original: silicone breasts, knife-hewn noses, puffy lips, and borderline translucent skin. It makes me want to vomit.
Throwback to last week’s post, I’d already stocked up the apartment with booze and snacks so I wouldn’t have to leave during the melee, and had concs 2, 3 and 5 over between Sunday and Tuesday. Number 3 nearly caused a riot when she asked if she could stick around after and watch TV with me on the sofa. I said “Sure,” but she could tell I didn’t mean it and made haste to get out of my personal space post-load drop. And that’s a Thai harem for you. What more does a man need, right? Any time I got the urge to venture out, the pumping bass and loudspeaker screaming from Silom Road would cause my balcony doors to vibrate, bringing me back to my senses.
Literally the only good thing about Songkran is, an old monger can flip through his Line and Facebook contacts, find girls he used to nail but hasn’t spoken to in years, and use the excuse of saying “Happy Songkran” to reopen communication with those gone-clams to repave the way to their clunge. On Wednesday I sent out a few Songkran messages to long-lost concubines and one of my faves responded within seconds. She used to dance at the old King’s Castle 2, and was one of the all-time most entertaining sex partners of my life. She was skinny, compliant, and in a word—loud. She was my neighbors’ least-favorite concs. Her enthusiasm rattled the ceiling tiles. She launched into a long conversation, catching me up on everything going on in her life. She said her friend sees me in Patpong all the time but I never acknowledge her. I didn’t say “it’s probably because she’s ugly.” Then she told me that Baifern—former Pink Panther dancer, Naked Ninja, and a feature in a recent Members Only Gallery—has died. I tried to glean the cause from my old conc, but too much got lost in translation. She just said Fern went to sleep and never woke up. I got the idea it might’ve been alcohol poisoning. She was a concubine of mine for a time. I recall her input as faintly luminous, like a candle in a dark room. She was fragile but resolved, and during the act she clung to my neck for dear life without complaint, and afterward rewarded me with a gentle kiss. RIP, Fern. You were a beautiful soul.
Fern’s not the first of my concs to pass on. A lovely XXX Lounge lass named Fook, who kept my bed warm during Covid, died of a mysterious disease that doctors couldn’t identify. She was a slim, pretty brunette who always seemed more serious than necessary—even in bed. Som—a tiny blonde ray of Nana Plaza sunshine—was killed in a motorbike accident. She had a broad, beautiful smile and, in contrast to Fook, was constantly laughing and joking around. May also died in a motorbike crash. She was the only gal I ever took out of Billboard, way back in 2012. A petite Soi 4 freelancer named Meow was murdered by one of her customers. It’s a sad fact of life that in Thailand, people kick over in numbers unheard of in the West. I miss them all dearly.
So instead of going out, I spent most of the week in my apartment looking at Pattaya condos. I’m still completely ambivalent about moving vs staying. Both options seem good. Ptown is only slightly more appealing to my mind at the moment. At this moment, I haven’t bottomed-out in Bangkok yet, but I’m close. I don’t see Patpong rebounding back to pre-Covid days, and so all signs point to starting over from scratch in Ptown, with no harem and no clout in the redlight. A fellow expat warned me that I shouldn’t make the move. “You’ll die there,” he said. Which is true, I’ve always known I’ll die there. But I think he meant it’d happen sooner rather than later, due to the kind of reckless, diabolical lifestyle Pattaya spurns in so many old men. But I’ve lived in that zone since 2012. I’m not a Bangkok expat—I’m a redlight expat. I don’t go to Sukhumvit. I don’t sit in pubs and chat with people. I don’t go to the cinema or do any of the things regular Bangkok people do. I only go to the redlight. So I feel I’m uniquely equipped to handle the temptations and lascivious nature of Ptown. I don’t believe it’ll faze me in the slightest. At any rate, I don’t really have a choice. Plus, I’m excited for a change, an ocean view, and a new sea of clunge in which to fish. Building a new harem will be difficult, but if anyone can do it, it’s this motherfucker.
As the weekend loomed, I ponged. Not that I wanted to. Id’ve been content to sit on the couch, but I needed fodder for this blog that only 10 of you read. So out I ventured into the sweaty Silom streets. At 7-11 I picked up a Thai Gatorade. A scruffy tourist with too many earrings for any gender bought a can of Pepsi, a loaf of bread, and a jar of jam. I guess his holiday budget ran out.
It wasn’t until I was sat in K1 and sipping my first vodka soda that I realized I’d forgotten to eat that day. Thankfully my blood is 2 parts vodka, one part hemoglobin so I knew I wouldn’t get drunk. I’ll say this for the sight of a gogo stage after five days of abstaining–it’s glorious. The sight of barely covered minges, lingerie titties and shapely round asses are like treacle for an old man’s soul. One of the clams I have on a hook came over for a soju. I should say “used to” have on a hook, because she finally got round to telling me her shorttime fee, which was a laughable 5 grand. Good luck with that, honey. ‘Twas a nipon regular customer’s birthday so the boss gave him a case of Singha with candles on top. King’s 3 was shut, due to so many girls still making their way back to BKK post-Songkran. New2 had four dancers in a rotation. It was paltry, yes, but the ladies all had that strapped-for-cash look in their eyes. These days the Thai New Year is an expensive holiday. The girls all have to go to the big Songkran concert so they can make selfie videos, and they all have to outdo each other with wardrobe and hair style. Service was lax as well. I confirmed it when I ordered a vodka soda and received a whisky soda in its stead. The gurl who turned down a spot in my harem scowled from the stage, I assume because I don’t buy her drinks anymore. But that’s an obvious component of the gravy train. You get regular ladydrinks when you regularly sling that clunge in my apartment. Otherwise it’s just throwing away cash.
Virgin’s stage was half-full. I spotted two familiars. The rest were strangers. One fit newbie decided to garner Seven’s attention. She put on a show, winking and smiling and swinging her minge around, all in front of the girl I tried to pull in the week before. The latter seemed dejected at the prospect of competition. Little did she know, there’s no need to vie to win me over. I’ll happily nail the both of them. In my earbuds, the song “Cool Places” by Sparks came on. I flashed back to being a teenager, stuck in my room on weekend nights with only two sources of consolation: music and posters of tropical beaches. “I wanna go to cool places” rang too true for comfort back then, when I thought I’d be trapped in a joyless Los Angeles life and felt vague yearnings to run as far away as possible. On countless nights I lay in my bed, staring at posters of Phuket, longing for cool places. Who knew that, decades later, I’d make that fantasy a reality.
On my way home, I stopped into 7-11 for green tea and macadamia nuts. In the nut aisle, blocking my way, was an American farank (farang skank) dressed like a male skateboarder. Both arms had tattoo sleeves. She had a trucker hat jammed down onto a head of dirty, matted hair. She wore baggy basketball shorts and a wife beater. She was, in a word, disgusting. And I know, I chose to live in a country that attracts this kind of trash. These days every brain-dead Millennial and GenZ doucher wants to visit Thailand. And these dirtbag lesbians are becoming more prevalent. Enduring these cunts is par for the course for expats. My only consolation is, she’ll be back on a plane in short order.
In other news, Google titan Eric Schmidt announced that in two years’ time, Ai will be smarter than all the collected intelligence of mankind put together. This, he says, will lead to The Singularity and the end of the human race. Get busy Terminator-proofing your condos, expats. We’re almost to Armageddon.
For any gamers who read these posts, The Last of Us Season 2 premiered on HBO last week. And look, I’m a fan of the game, or at least, the game’s narrative. It’s about a pretty, vulnerable teenage girl and the father figure who fights to protect her in a post-apocalyptic world. The rendering of the heroine in the game was loosely modeled after a pre-transitioned Ellen Page—not beautiful, but cute. Innocent-looking. The kind of gal any adult would want to defend. In the TV show, the character is played by Bella Ramsey, one of the ugliest working actors in the world. I watched Episode 1 yesterday. Every time her hideous face appeared on screen, I was physically repulsed. Eventually I had to turn it off. I just can’t bear to see her gross, disfigured physiognomy. It’s a shame, because the storyline is pretty cool. But it’s just not worth watching, due to the physical nausea it induces.
Sorry for the sparse redlight content, but I barely got out the house this week. And if I’m honest, I’m bored with the scene, lately. All the more reason to move to Ptown, I guess.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is the second in a series of photo albums of Patpong’s hottest dancers between 2010 and 2019. The link is here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-patpongs-hottest-honeys-2010-2019-part-2/
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. Sorry for the inconvenience.
Scroll down for a commemorative photo spread of Baifern, the aforementioned gogo dancer who passed away too soon.
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: It turns out that when you don’t have to wake up at 6 am every day to schlep out and work for 10 hours day, you’re not tired come bedtime. These days I have trouble falling asleep before 04.00. Two things that help me get better sleep, even after a late night, are magnesium glycinate and vitamin B-1. If you pop these babies at dinnertime, you’ll get better rest, no matter when you finally find your way to dreamland.
As advertised, here’s a tribute to gogo gone girl, Baifern:
