Hey reader, how they hangin’. If I sound a bit down in the mouth in this post, it’s because I am. I’ll try to put on a happy face, but the truth is, this old gogo hound has fallen into a bit of a rut. My old stomping grounds of Patpong has taken on a kind of post-apocalyptic feel. Nearly a third of it remains dark, thanks to the persistent non-recovery from the scamdemic and the forced-shuttering of its 3 brightest bars through gross abuse of police power. And while the 5 remaining gogos (Pink Panther, King’s Corner, King’s 1, Radio City, and Bada Bing) are fun, bustling, and chock full of hot girls, it’s not enough. And so, I’ve been slowly acclimating to dividing time between the Pong and Nana Plaza, where there aren’t as many worthwhile bars, but it’s where a gang of my best galpals work now. And so this old chunk of wood must schlep over there on the regular. And I am—albeit grudgingly—learning to tolerate it.
I do that by not dwelling on its lowlights, which are 1: the swaths of dirty tourists, 2: the fact that 90% of the bars are terrible, 3: the security is tighter than fucking Windsor Castle, and 4: it’s a goddam 10-minute mototaxi ride from my front door. Instead of focusing on these things, I train my brain on its meager high points: It’s bright and colorful, in the way that old town Las Vegas is. I can smoke cigars on the ground floor. 8 of my besties work in Twister. Hooter’s buffalo wings and tacos.
Last week, I established a new routine. At around 18.00 I message my girls to see where they’ll be that night—Nana or Pong, or at home. If enough are heading to Nana, I jump a taxi and I hit the Hoot around 19.30, have a meal, then skate into Twister just as the girls are arriving. I chill with them for an hour, have a smoke, and then motor t’Pong.
On Tuesday I was scarfing down a plate of boneless wings when I saw something new. A farang on a motorbike dropped his girlfriend off in the Nana Hotel carpark and then sped off, as she scampered over to clock in at NanaP. I have to say, that’s real dedication. To stick with your girl knowing she slings her gash for cash while you stay at home playing X-Box. Or maybe he goes trawling for strange, who knows? In either case, what keeps a couple like that together? I mean, I’ve read in books and seen in movies this thing called human attachment. I know that normal people yearn for a warm body to spoon in the night. I’ve just never felt that, so it’s alien to me. I understand the part about letting her work the redlight. A couple of my harem still take to the pole on the regular, and I couldn’t care less. It’s the flipside of that carpark scene that I don’t understand. Like, is there an apartment somewhere in Klong Toei where their clothes are hanging side by side in a closet? I shudder at the thought.
After the closure of XXX, first string hotties Earn and Beer shifted over to K Castle, but on Tuesday, Beer messaged to say she was trying out Whiskey-n-Gogo. Turns out she picked the wrong night because the cops shut Whiskey down, ostensibly because they were missing one of the dozen or so certificates a gogo needs in order to stay open. If I had to guess I’d say someone missed a tea money installment. I don’t envy anyone who opens a gogo bar in Thailand. It seems more trouble than it’s worth. I’ll say this about the so-called boiler room boys (that’s the nickname given to the collective of farang Nana bar owners)—they’re doing it right. I’ve never met them, but it’s clear they mind their Ps and Qs. They dot their I’s and cross their T’s. Staying on the right side of prison bars takes talent in this town, and though rumors tend to fly about the boiler boys, you can’t knock their redlight game.
I only hit one Nana bar on Tuesday: Twister, of course. Nuchy, Puy, Luktal, Nan, Oil, and Kaew were all on hand so we partied in a corner for a good hour. Then I retired to the terrace to spark up a Drew Estate Kentucky Fire Cured cigar and paired it with Southern Comfort, the combination of which was a nearly-religious experience. I think at one point my spirit actually left my body. Then I hopped a moto t’Pong.
I’m constantly amazed by the crops of new hotties (crotties for short, copyright BKK7) that cram the stage at King’s 1 every night—even on Sundays, which is traditionally the slowest night of the week onPong, they come out in droves. Add to that the return of veterans great and small and it’s complete mayhem at King’s. The veteran small came in the form of Woont, who returned last week after 3 years, 20lbs lighter. The veteran great—or rather fat—was Praew, who hit the stage 20lbs heavier on Tuesday after working in a factory in Cambodia for the past 5 months. Som was there, too. She’s gone blonde and looks sensational.
On Wednesday I brought a Drew Estate Herrera Esteli Norteno t’Pong. I stopped in to Bada Bing first and had a SML while idly sniffing my stogie. One of the girls onstage asked to see it so I let her handle my stick for a bit before bailing to the Soi 1 beer garden to smoke. The owner of Derby King brought over a plate of spring rolls and the Radio City mamasan whipped me up a black russian and I once again found myself in tobacco-redlight heaven. From there I waddled over to Pink Panther and sat with Joy for a bit. She and I never had much of a friendship beyond saying hello, but on this occasion I couldn’t help playing with her big fake titties. She didn’t seem to mind. After that, I hopped onto my usual seat in King’s Castle. The good news there is, in addition to all the new hotness, they’ve hired a bunch of barmaids to handle the recent tidal wave of customers. The bad news is, these chicks don’t know me. They don’t know where I sit and don’t have my drink order memorized. After 10 years in the redlight, this old fossil is back to being treated like a fucking tourist. The newbies can’t understand why the managers and mamasans wai me. And I know I’m repeating stuff I’ve already said, but that’s my life now. I’ve fallen into a feedback loop. Call it redlight reincarnation, or rather redundance. Nothing in tarnation changes unless I do something illogical like zigginig out to Cowboy before zagging quickly back to somewhere better.
Post K Castle, I avoided King’s Corner, where a hostess had been ordering somtam on my dime for 3 days running without even asking me first, and stalked stealthily homeward.
On Thursday, the Patpong Museum tried and failed to reopen. I’m not sure if the cops kiboshed it or if the Patpong family landlords said no. I still have a cluster of artwork in there, and I fear the police will steal—I mean confiscate it. Y’know, I don’t have much info on this situation. You know what I’m referring to—the one where an innocent man was jailed with zero evidence against him and all his businesses were shut down. Some say he stepped on the wrong toes in Phuket. Others say a disgruntled investor set him up. It’s all just wild speculation. Personally, I think it’s a combination of Thai authorities wanting to save face while also looking for an excuse to seize all his stuff. It’s made me terrified of the cops here. One of the many reasons why I left the US was because of corrupt, dangerous police. It’s a hard pill to swallow, finding out I didn’t escape this problem. But I remain optimistic. Thailand is awesome. Its people are great. I choose to stubbornly believe that the truth will out and the dude in question will be vindicated.
My only memory of Thursday was a visit to King’s Corner (I told the somtam lady to stop doling out food to their mamasan on my tab) and saw something new: a female farang barfining a gogo dancer. I couldn’t suss out what her plan was, but she was talking to someone on her mobile. Perhaps her swinger boyfriend waiting back at the hotel? All I know is, it wasn’t easy for her. Two girls turned her down before the 3rd charmer threw caution to the wind and acquiesced. Speaking of K Corner, they’re now cramming 50 girls in there on a night, which is a lot for their small stage. I counted at least 10 smoking hot ones as well. Those are impressive stats.
On Friday I hit Hootz for grilled fish tacos before sliding into Twister to hang with my buds. There were some cool motorcycles parked on the terrace and the stage and girls were decorated with a checkered-flag motif. I didn’t bother asking why. ‘Twas an interesting theme, all the same. I sat with Oil for a bit and then moved to the terrace to continue the tradition of lighting up a Drew Estate cigar. I decided my Java Latte coffee-infused stick should be paired with a white russian followed by a black russian, but the terrace bar didn’t have half-n-half so I bailed t’Pong and smoked my stogie outside Pink Panther with friends Beem and Lookked, whose big beautiful boobs made a perfect backdrop for my cigar photos (see this week’s Youtube slideshow). A team of Japanese tourists fresh from Thaniya peeked into Panther, then chickened out and hurried on down the soi. Following Pink, I hit King’s Castle and was greeted by 20 fresh new faces. Per usual the staff didn’t know my drink order and they squawked disapprovingly when I took photos of the stage.
Last night (Saturday) I got a Line message from Bee (formerly of The Strip) telling me to come see her at Rainbow Soi Cowboy. By then it was 10 pm, I’d already had a harem girl over and burned an hour onPong, but I thought “fuck it,” and went looking for a mototaxi, couldn’t find one, found 2 drivers who were off the clock and already drunk, and so called an audible, grabbing a tuk-tuk for the most roundabout, harrowing ride of my life. He shot down Naradiwas to the bottom of Silom in order to take Ratchadaphisek all the way up to Asok. ‘Twas a dark and foreboding jaunt through some of the most depressing neighborhoods in BKK. But he got me t’Cowboy so all was well. Except that, by the time I walked into Rainbow, Bee’d already been barfined. I sat with Aom—another Strip veteran—and let her finger my stick (Drew Estate Undercrown maduro) for a bit before lighting up and pissing off all the girls sitting outside. Then I found the last seat inside the gogo and stayed for one Asahi. ‘Twas a markedly different vibe from my previous visit the week before. The girls were fun, upbeat, and happy. I counted half a dozen hot ones. Customers were packed to the rafters. And the frosting on this redlight cake: the DJ busted out a Wreckx’n’Effect track. The takeaway was one of nostalgia, and not just because of the 90s hip-hop. Rainbow is festive. It’s inviting. Like how all of Cowboy used to be back in the early 20teens. In short, it was a party.
Bee’s barfine left me in a state of limbo. Since I’d schlepped all the way over there, I decided to visit the only other good gogo on the Soi: Dollhouse. While en route, I nearly got knocked into Cowboy2 by a drunk, swaying Chinese cunt. Dollhouse was rammed. I squeezed into a corner seat next to a crusty old Brit who seemed truly put out by my presence. There were zero hotties onstage and none upstairs, but rule number 1 in the redlight is, never leave before the rotation. The 2nd rota was 50% fitter. Halfway through my SML I got another Line message from Bee saying she was back from her barfine already. Her Korean customer had lasted less than a minute in the short-time hotel. So I plodded back to Rainbow to hang with her. I asked her if she missed Patpong. She said hell no. She prefers Cowboy because of the massive, relentless throng of customers. Speaking of, I people-watched for a bit, and just like last week, 100% of the slow-moving herd on the soi were right douchebags. Cowboy is officially a loser magnet. Compared to Cowboy, Nana’s clientele are the upper crust. Cowboy is a clogged toilet of humanity. It’s nothing to do with the bars or the girls. I blame the Hangover movie. In the California Central Coast, before the movie Sideways came out, the wine country there was a quiet, pristine bastion of culture—a hidden gem of delight where a wine snob could get away from it all and enjoy the good life at a discounted price. Post-Sideways, even all these years later, it’s a shameless cash-grab and tourist trap, trampled on by the unrefined masses like some kind of wine-themed Disneyworld. Every stupid cunt and their retarded cohorts sully the vineyards from Santa Ynez to Paso Robles. The same thing has happened to Cowboy, thanks to that goddam Hangover film.
Outside Keyhole, there was a girl trying to coax passersby into the joint. She was the spunkiest, most effervescent barker I’d ever seen, trying her damnedest to get dudes into that shitty little bar, refusing to give up, holding onto optimism like a life preserver. She was hands-down the best thing about the place, so I paid her a hundy to snap a couple pics and included them in this week’s slideshow.
Last week, as I passed the dark and padlocked doors of The Strip, XXX Lounge, Glamour, Black Pagoda, and Kiss Bar, I saw random dudes standing outside staring blankly at the closed gogos, as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. It must be hard for those tourists who got on a plane after a 3-year lockdown and traveled all the way to Thailand to visit the bars and girls that made their previous holiday so special, only to find them shut and the girls gone. It made me harken back to all the good times I’ve had in those joints. Then I remembered that I have nearly a decade’s worth of photos chronicling those good times. And so yesterday I dug a couple hard drives out of the closet and began organizing them into what will become future slideshows on my YouTube channel.
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
If you’re in a generous mood, you can donate anytime at https://www.buymeacoffee.com/bangkok7
Follow me on 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: If you don’t want to get hassled for drinks in the redlight, and you’re secure in your sexuality, choose to drink in a bar that’s half chicks, half ladyboys. Nobody will know what your preference is, and so no one will know whether or not to approach you. By the time they figure you out, your beer will be empty.
