Greetings, reader. How’s it hangin’? I hope for your sake that you’ve escaped the West and are living free and wild in some other place. Panama’s good for that. Thailand is even better. I continue to watch YouTube in horror as the world falls to pieces. If this is The End, I hope you get a few good nights in before everything goes down the toilet. For this reason, I’ve abandoned my plan to forego midweek redlighting.
On Thursday I Pong’d, soaking up the animated sexual masterpieces that are the 3 King’s bars while soaking watermelon chunks in vodka-sodas. Although the crew of beauties (crewties for short, copyright BKK7) in K1 is solid and has been for years, I actually think the growing gang of gorgeous gals in K2 are objectively hotter, though there are less of them. Plus, they’re intriguing, those K2 girls—aloof, coy, and mysterious, like a people-puzzle to be solved. Ten years ago, I’dve had the energy to try. Now I just observe them through side-glances. And the K Corner girls are even hotter. Of the Bangkok redlight game I call “vaginal of the fittest,” the Pong wins standing up. I know I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. And it all rests on the King’s’ shoulders. Pink Panther contributes, but the King’s hosts the bulk of the hotties. I’ve no explanation for why. Maybe they’ve got some kind of hot clunge magnet.
Having said that, it’s not enough to sustain the entire RLD. Everyone knows the Pong is sinking, like an ancient ocean liner slowly slipping into a dark, cold abyss. For those of us who’d prefer three RLDs to two, the prospect of losing the Pong is monumental. We wait and hope for good news, in spite of all indications pointing toward disaster. This weary redlighter will continue to trudge the sois of Patpong until the last gogo closes. Like Charles Loughin, the baker on the Titanic who stayed onboard and carried on drinking until the last inch of the ship was submerged, I will be sipping a cocktail as they pry the last gogo bar sign from the wall. And if every door closes except the King’s bars, I’ll still hit those bars on the reg. Speaking of, King’s 1 has finally restocked their Kahlua. I cleaned them out back in May by ordering a black russian every night for a year.
My Friday began in the Nana Plaza beer garden with a Tiger pint and a plate of chicken satay from Stumble Inn. I’m trying to cut back on carbs, though the beer really cancels out all efforts. It’s a slog. But the chicken sticks were tasty, and filling. As I sat there sipping my brewski, watching the girls arrive to work, my earbuds favored me with “Glory Bound” by Martin Sexton, harkening me back to sitting at Duke’s Restaurant in Malibu, a thing I’d do every Sunday, feet in the sand, watching sea lions play in the surf. Back then, I was writing scripts for a porn company (that’s how long ago it was—pornos actually had plots) wondering if I’d ever get out of L.A. Thinking back on it now, after circling the globe twice and bidding farewell to the US nearly two decades ago and living in four different countries on three continents, that L.A. life feels like someone else’s life. Or maybe just a dream I had once after an alcoholic bender in Ao Nang.
My first stop was to Angelwitch to say hi to Joey D and sip a SML. It’s their favorite time of year, and the joint already had its Halloween décor up. The DJ was on fire. What other gogo would play INXS—and not “Need You Tonight,” friends, oh no. This dude busted out with “New Sensation.” Following that was Bryan Adams, Dire Straits, and the greatest band of all time: The Police. That DJ’s a legend.
Then I popped into Essence to hang with my old XXX Lounge galpals. A dozen or so of those girls continue to cling to that location like a lifeline. In fact, if they didn’t work there, I’d never go, and likely wouldn’t hit NanaP that often. The only additional draw is Twister, where a collection of ex-Patpong girls add color and shape to their roster. Don’t get me wrong, there are lots of hot chicks in that bar. I just have a soft spot for the ones that used to grace the stages of Glamour and Black Pagoda. Speaking of Twister, I finished off my Nana night with Nat, Jane, and Oil. Hanging with them is almost like replicating the long-gone superfun Pong days of yore.
From there I mo’taxi’d to Cowboy to hang with Dennis at Dollhouse. He’s always a gracious host. When I arrived, the place was a madhouse. The upstairs was completely full (all the chicks up there were naked, by the way), and the only open seat on the ground level was in the back corner, next to Dennis. We chatted about this redlight life and the prospect of future endeavors. I told him I want to move to Ptown and scale back the mongering. He said he can sympathize. I might be wrong, but I think every ageing gogo geezer dreams of a beach retirement. Because in Thailand, it’s not so much a retirement as a relocating to redlights with breezier climes.
After DH I peeked into Rainbow. It was pandemonium in there. Bee ran over saying, “Sorry Seven, I have a customer now. Wait, wait…” I didn’t wait. Instead I folded a hundy into Satang’s bikini bottoms and headed to the loo. If you haven’t taken a whizz in Rainbow, the urinals have a large window that allows those pissing to watch the stage—and the customers. If you’re one of those dudes that gets stage fright when whizzing, it can make the act a daunting task. While I was mid-stream, I looked up and made eye contact with a dancer onstage. She gave me a smirk and I smiled. It should’ve been awkward, but for some reason, neither of us seemed embarrassed. I’m not sure something like that could happen anywhere but a Bangkok gogo bar.
After washing my hands, I escaped out to the Rainbow terrace to watch the human zoo shuffling down the Soi. A fat farang with a hot Asian girlfriend lumbered past. The girl stopped and tried to get him to check out Rainbow. He said, “No way.” She seemed confused. I wanted to tell her that in 2023, American men are beta cucks who come to Thailand just to virtue signal some form of fucked-up feminism for Asian girls who have no concept of woke Western bullshit. He’s only on Soi Cowboy to take a selfie for Istagram with a tagline like “hashtag human trafficking.” His friends will call him stunning and brave. My generation would call him a stupid pussy.
I briefly considered branching out and trying another Cowboy gogo, but the last half dozen times I did that, I got burned, so I said “fuck it” and bailed.
Recently, the French govt considered passing a law limiting their citizens to four commercial airline flights—not per year—per lifetime. Because climate change. If that becomes reality, and if other countries sign on, Thailand will be fucked. The economy will collapse. I mean, I love the idea of dirty, shitty foreigners not coming here, but I definitely can’t support all the gogo dancers who’d be out of a job, and who knows how long the country could hold things together before descending into a zombie apocalypse. Meanwhile, World War 3 has begun. How long before it all falls apart? I don’t know. But I’m going to pack as much living in as I can before the end.
With that in mind, I hit up the weekend buffet at Flavors in the Renaissance Hotel. It was a real bitch to find. Google Maps made it look like it butted up against the Grand Erawan, so I Bolted there. ‘Twas nowhere near there. In fact, the Renaissance is set back away from Sukhumvit Road, with a shit ton of construction in between, making it hard to see. The only way to get there is by way of a narrow walkway that weaves through the construction zone. Navigating it felt like leveling up in a video game.
On arrival I swiftly realized I was the only farang in the whole hotel. Speaking Thai endeared me to the staff, but more than a couple old Japanese ladies gave me the stink-eye. The hotel and restaurant were several cuts above the places I typically haunt, and I got the idea that I was seeing a side of Bangkok that Caucasians aren’t supposed to, as if this was a special environment exclusive to high society Japanese and Chinese tourists. I made up my mind then and there to raid every one of these Asiansclusive joints around town. For a rundown and review of the buffet, pop over to my Substack (link below).
On leaving the Renaissance fat and happy, I walked out into another nighttime downpour that put a literal damper on my redlight plans. Instead, I ended up back in my neighborhood where I quite accidentally found a humble hole-in-the-wall bar with a single barmaid and no customers. Purely to avoid the rain, I swung in and downed a few beers, making conversation with the lone Thai uni student. It was a charming way to end the evening. I won’t say the name of the place, because I’d like it to be my own secret sanctuary. A ‘hidden gem,’ as it were.
My overall takeaway from the week’s events is, even without the prospect of WW3, life is short. And a monger only has a certain number of nights left to hit the redlight. And there are buffets and hotels around Bangkok that cater to Asians but also can’t turn farang away. As Andy Dufresne said in “The Shawshank Redemption,” a punter better get busy living, or get busy dying. And this old redlight rat wants to live.
Get ready to put on your pretend surprised face, reader. It turns out, not everyone in the Bangkok redlight scene is a good person. I know, I know. You’re shocked.
The truth is, most redlight rascals are really awesome. In 13 years tearing through the nooks and crannies of the gogos from Phuket to Ptown to Patpong, I’ve found that overwhelmingly, the folks who run these joints are great. The Pink Panther crew come to mind. They’ve always been gracious hosts. And of course, the Thai owners (with one exception) from King’s to Twister. And in recent weeks I’ve had the good fortune to meet some VIPs—owners and managers—mostly in Nana Plaza and Soi Cowboy, and also Pattaya, who are princes among men. That said, I’ve also learned recently that certain dudes I’ve known for years are straight-up cocksuckers. I mean, I’d heard stories, but never witnessed their cocksukery first-hand. And now that I have, it’s time to stop hitting up their gogos—bars that’ve been something of a second home for me since 2012. Luckily, these same venues have turned to shit lately, otherwise it would’ve been a real heartbreak. There are other better gogos, thank fuck. And it’ll be a relief not having to come up with good things to say about those bars on a Sunday. It was becoming a chore.
The lesson I’ve learned is this: 9 out of 10 gogos have owners, bosses, and babes who are golden. And life is short, so spend your time in those bars, and forget the 1 in 10 that’re run by cunts.
Speaking of Twister, the owners are currently furiously debating whether or not to post to social media. It’s hard to get Thais who’re set in their ways to open their minds to new ideas, even though posting on the internet is hardly a new idea. And yet, they’re reluctant. My hope is that they’ll realize there are only upsides and no downsides to posting to Twitter. Fingers crossed. But this kind of mindset isn’t exclusive to Thais. Some farang owners are just as sheepish, though in their case I don’t think it’s a question of resisting change. For the foreign owners, it’s just stupidity. Recently, I was given permission to promote a bar online—free of charge, of course, as I don’t take money for this service. Last night, the same manager who gave the go-ahead last week said, “Sorry, my boss doesn’t want to promote the bar.” I said, “Why the fuck not?” The manager said, “I don’t know.” Fucking retarded. And so that bar won’t get the benefit of free PR anymore. I mean, I’m still going to post photos of their dancers. I just won’t mention the bar’s name. That’s what we in the biz call “a lost opportunity.”
Last week, I got two Line messages out of the blue from past harem girls who for one reason or another fell out of contact. One tried to start a new life working at a factory in Cambodia. It didn’t work. The other hunkered down with her Thai boyfriend during Covid and he left her as soon as the lockdowns ended. Since then she’s tried to get back on the pole with limited success. At any rate, in both cases they sent a ‘hello’ messaged and then asked “How are you?” I responded the same both times: “I’m OK.” Both times, I waited for an inevitable “I’m broke, can you help me?” message. But none came. Maybe in the future they’ll ask, but it was so odd to get those similar messages at the same time, and yet not get hit up for donations. I haven’t sussed it out yet. One thing’s for sure, though. Neither is getting their spot back in the harem rotation. I have too many to deal with now, plus one got too chubby and the other got too thin.
If you haven’t yet, check out my MGThai video series on my YouTube channel. It’s strictly mediocre content, but from a Thai expat perspective.
Artwork and photo albums from inside the gogos are available for digital download at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart at superlow prices.
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 plus some recent gogo dancer selfies can be found in the YouTube slideshow companion for this post at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
Follow me on Twitter/X @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: When hitting a holiday or hotel buffet, get the free-flow wine and order a glass of red and a glass of white. That way you’ll have something to pair with every plate. Skip all the cold food and push to the front of the queue at the hot, made-to-order fare. There, get two of everything. Skip all the carbs. If the buffet has a time limit, eg 6:00 to 8:00, be there by 5:50 at the latest, because those fuckers start packing up at 8:01.