Holy Moly, reader. We’re nearly a month into 2023 already. It’s flying by. All the more reason to live every day to its fullest, especially since the real-life Spectre organization of pure evil that is the World Economic Forum, aka the assholes who actually run the world, met last week to talk about 1—the effect of their planned future pandemics and cyberattacks on Western power grids (not kidding). 2—how they’re saving the world by culling billions from the population and 3—locking down the survivors in permanent neo-feudalism. We don’t have many good days left, friends. And they’re passing by at breakneck speed. And yet, this old redlight monger is slowing down. So far this year, I’ve made the biggest life change since moving to Thailand over a decade ago. Namely, cutting down my nights out from 7 per week to 3-4, skipping at least a day between bawdy binges. The short-term result thus far has been a slightly smaller gut and better sleep. I ain’t gonna lie, it feels good. A middle-aged curmudgeon who’s made a career of failure and is now sliding into old age like a sunset into the Andaman has nothing to prove by hitting the gogos every single night. Not anymore, anyway.
But fret not, dear reader. I’ll always have enough fodder to float via these pernicious posts, sufficient for anyone looking to get a vicarious redlight fix. My week began in Ptown.
On Sunday I was still firmly ensconced in Pattaya, reluctant to leave and living it up like a goddam tourist. It was, in a word, awesome.
I had a late/early start (depending on whether you’re a daydrinker or a nightlife hound) at 15.30 on The 6—‘twas the first time I didn’t just walk through and leave. I had a snack at Mama’s Café (salad with a side of fries) before taking on the naughty girls of this salacious soi. In last week’s post, I mentioned seeing a first, in the form of a white dude in his 60s with a Thai girlfriend near his same age. At Mama’s, I spied another unique pair: a Thai woman with an Indian husband. They had a daughter who must’ve been around 11 and who was absolutely gorgeous, proving that interracial couples can and do turn out beautiful offspring. She’ll be a supermodel when she grows up.
In each of the NightWish bars, there are maybe two hotties who’re always bogarted by the farang managers, who behave as though they built Soi 6 with their bare hands 6 decades ago. It’s a wonder their bars stay in business with managers cockblocking the customers like that. And their pomposity is positively off-putting.
I spent 2 hours on The 6 frustrating several girls who couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t short-time. I guess they’re trained to leave the regulars alone and target unfamiliar faces. It makes sense to assume tourists are there to bang, so when a stranger doesn’t want sex, I suppose it’s odd. Though in the bar actually named Night Wish, it was the opposite situation. I couldn’t even get a girl to take my drink order. In Liquid, a gal sat with me, massaging my naughty bits to no avail. Finally she asked why I wasn’t getting hard. I didn’t want to tell her that, at her advanced age of 25, she was pushing my age limit for banging, so I just said I was too tired.
From The 6, I popped up to Virgin Rooftop bar on Soi 4 to smoke a Cuban Romeo y Julieta, drink Cab/Shiraz, and watch the sun go down. It was a clear, breezy, blue-sky sunset that left me in a most serene humour (you can witness it by heading over to my YouTube channel–I friggin’ recorded it, yo), and I ambled down to the baht bus consumed in a cloud of contentment. Hopping off at Walking Street a full two hours before the gogos were set to open, and having thrown caution to the wind in the afterglow of my Cuban-vino-sunset, I swung into King Seafood for lobster and shrimp cakes. I was placed at a table overlooking the bay and basked in the serenity, pairing the excellent food with a glass of exquisite white wine (I’ve learned not to ask to see the label, since in Thailand the brand inevitably drops a turd in the punchbowl of the experience. The table next to mine was occupied by three Japanese Yakuza-looking cunts who addressed the wait staff like they were slaves. Impressively, the server spoke to them in Japanese, but the fuckers weren’t impressed. My friends back in the US are blissfully ignorant about the Japanese. All they know of them is, they make good electronics, they wield samurai swords, and they make crazy porn. They’re completely unaware that the Japanese are by and large the most racist people on the planet—more than any backwards Southern KKK member could ever be.
After scarfing down the food and guzzling the wine, I wasn’t ready to leave, so I ordered what should rightfully become my new signature cocktail, called a Dying Bastard (cognac, rum, ginger ale, mint). 1,944b all-in, no plus-plus.
Sunday was my night to check out some 2nd and 3rd string joints. One was Living Dolls, a bar I used to adore back in the 20-teens. There were lots of chubsters in there. 160b SMLs. That’s about all there is to say about it. In addition to the new “XS” next to Fahrenheit, there’s another one called Ivygo in the old G-Spot location. And in what appears to be the 2023 trend of Pattaya having the hottest girls, this brand new bar was rife with gorgeous dancers. Four retarded Asian dudes (I wanna say Japanese) walked in, glanced at the girls onstage, and bailed, violating Seven’s Number 1 rule: never leave before the rotation. Five minutes later, a dozen 9’s took the stage. I’m sure the owners must’ve pinched themselves at their good fortune, pulling in so many lookers, though they’re not helping themselves by charging 170b for a SML—the priciest beer on Walking Street.
My only repeat gogo from the previous night was XS. The hottest girl in the place was monopolized by a tiny, withered old farang. I love to see it. He bought her 3 drinks at a pop trying to keep her from bailing. I ran into her in the toilet and the thought crossed my mind to steal her away, but the dude looked like he didn’t have a lot to live for, so I passed. Also, I myself am too old to engage in those kinds of shenanigans. From there, I stumbled back to my hotel and the next morning I was on a bus back to BKK.
As for BKK, I hit the Pong a few times. Things are settling into a new normal—that of the redlight bars juggling throngs of invasive tourists like a slew of spinning plates. OnPong, the busiest, craziest joints are Pink Panther, King’s 1 and 2, Bada Bing, and Black Pagoda. XXX Lounge business goes in waves—sometimes rammed, other times quiet. Their success relies heavily on their team of 1st string dancers. When those smoking hot hotties are at work, the place is bumping. When they’re not, things get subdued. Radio City is also inexplicably quiet most nights, despite having quite a few sexy babes in their roster.
The Night Market continues to expand, taking up more of Soi 1. The addition of food stalls has made the Pong feel like a self-contained ecosystem. Lately I prefer a midweek Pong, as it’s less busy and more resembles the pre-return of shitty, obnoxious tourists. That sense of quietude sticks with me even in the gogos. I feel at home and composed in that chaos like the calm in the eye of a storm. It’s a kind of sanctuary. That is, until some fucking tourist breaks the spell, either by climbing onstage or worse, talking at me.
On Tuesday, Beer, Pu, and Momay among others were onstage at XXX. Nobody seemed to notice my 5-day absence, proving the most frequent Pong punter of the last decade (yours truly) is inconsequential—at least, now that the tourists are back. Three of my former harem girls from years past have returned to the pole in Pink Panther, but instead of it being awkward, it was more like a reunion between distant family members. Nobody harbored hard feelings. Even better, nobody asked me for drinks. I got away by stuffing 100s into each of their short-shorts.
Both King’s are going strong. When my regular harem girl in the Castle doesn’t show up for work, other girls take turns making a run at me, eager to get on the BangkokSeven gravy train. I eye them the way an old, fat lion with a full belly would observe a gazelle, careful not to make eye contact lest they misinterpret my gaze as an invitation.
At 21.30 a solo female farang took up a seat at King’s, scrutinized the menu, and ordered a Singha. Then in a rare move, she remained in her seat, sipped her beer quietly, and behaved herself, God bless her.
Radio City’s horde of hotties continues to lure in more customers on weekdays than weekends. I can’t figure that one out.
On Thursday I swung into G’s German for a Helle Weissen and a cigar before Ponging. Seated next to me were three Bridiots (British idiots) who proceeded to A—butcher the Thai language and B—talk utter gobshite to the point that I was prompted to leave. FYI, I’m not saying all Brits are idiots—just these three. They were a pair of beta cucks and a female chatterbox. The most poignant point in their diatribe was the perks of Bangkok fitness centres, places they clearly never visited, judging by their doughy physiques. The rest of my Pong evening went as per usual–lots of booze and boob-and-butt grabbing.
Friday onPong was a clusterfuck of humanity. Vanilla tourists and gogo mongers were thrust together like waring factions in a Braveheart-style skirmish. Bartenders Pongwide couldn’t pour drinks fast enough for the voracious visitors. Parties in all locations, from Pink Panther to Bada Bing were lunatic asylum-level crazy. The Bing was so hot, I actually stayed for a 2nd beer—first time in over six years. A girl who I’d tried and failed to make part of my harem back in 2016 suddenly started showing me attention. I guessed she must’ve grabbed a calculator and added up how much money she would’ve made off me had she said ‘yes’ all those years ago. She shamelessly paraded herself before me like a horny peacock. But since I’m a petty, vindictive prick, I paid her no mind. She had her chance and blew it. So I guess we both lose.
On Saturday, the manager at XXX Lounge had a test run of his bratwurst-and-fries shop, located next door to the gogo. He manned the stove and handed out free samples while attempting to train a Thai staffer how to whip up the stuff. I got to scarf down some brat and fresh golden fries before heading up to Black Pagoda, where Jack Nites of bangkoknightlife.com was doing a photo shoot. And right on cue, the Chinese New Year acrobat families showed up onPong with their drums, cymbals, tumblers, and dragon costume, to the delight of onlookers. Pics of all the above, from my last night in Pattaya to Jack’s photo shoot can be found in the slideshow over at my YouTube channel (link below).
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/
Redlight videos and photo slideshows, along with a companion to this post, can be viewed 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’re eating in a restaurant in Thailand, and you’re stuffing your face using a fork, don’t be surprised if some Thais stare at you. This is because—and I know this sounds crazy—Thais who haven’t acclimated to Western culture don’t put forks in their mouths. They use forks to scoop food onto their spoon, and put the spoon in their mouth. Some Thais actually think it’s dangerous to use a fork because you might accidentally stab yourself in the mouth. No joke.
