What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. Well fuck me sideways, it’s World War 3. Trump has been manipulated into dragging the US into Israel’s war with the whole Middle East—I know it’s just Iran at the mo, but those yarmulke-wearing cunts won’t stop there. Unfortunately, they want to nuke Pakistan next, so the end of our civilization is at hand. China is testing massive military landing craft in preparation to take Taiwan and pushing further into the South China Sea. Yesterday, North Korea launched missiles into South Korea. Cunts all over the US are rioting on behalf of radical muslims and illegal aliens, and while it’s been pure pleasure watching the Facebook videos of those assholes getting run over and rubber bullets to the balls, it’s clear the social engineers there are planning something momentous. Three volcanoes erupted. It’s a global clusterfuck. So far, the one upside is that tourism from those regions is expected to drop by 50% here in Thailand, thank Buddha. The only thing an aging monger can do is hope Cambodia doesn’t invade, and hit the redlight in search of distraction.
Early in the week I Ponged, mainly to get some rad na at Derby King. I can finally eat there again now that high season’s over. I can’t stand it when I’m not the only customer in the joint. As far as I know, it’s just one old Thai grandma in the back, whipping up the classics on her own. Afterward, ‘twas too early for gogos so I took a stroll around Soi Thaniya. The mamasan formerly from a popular Patpong French gogo who now works at one of the Japanese gentleman’s brothels gave me a hug and said, “Seven why are you so slim? Are you sick?” I thought about trying to explain keto and fasting, and decided against it. I just told her I stopped eating. She said why? I said I didn’t like being fat. Then she hit me up for dinner money. I guess she thought I didn’t need it, and she was right.
The Night Market was visibly less-crowded than previous weeks, though there were several solo and duo farams (farang clams) taking advantage of the low season slump in cost to eatpraylove in TLOS. I guess not every Stella can afford to get her groove back in wintertime. It makes sense. What hippie isn’t on a budget?
It was white lingerie night in King’s 1 and 3, and the aesthetic was tres chic. Even the chubsters looked alluring. The Corner girls donned their customary red bikinis. A newhottie zeroed in on Seven like a laser. She came and sat down without being summoned. “You’re Seven,” she said, as though she was declaring territory. “Kahpom,” I replied. She took my phone, opened Line, and put her number in, sending herself an emoji. I asked her name. She said it was Praew. Then it was her rota so she left, without asking for a drink.
I was the lone punter in there from 20.00 to 20.15. That’s when 10 nipons in suits walked in and took over the joint. The New2 gals wore red, like their cross-soi neighbors. I’ve two on the hook in there, but if I’m honest, I can’t work up the energy. In my mind, I’ve already moved to Ptown. What’s the point of conjuring new concubines if I’m just gonna bail in a couple months?
Later, I popped in to Virgin to check out their new bath/shower shows setup and ogle the new blood. A couple of old stalwarts were in there, but it was mostly new faces. Another local monger walked in, and he regaled me with a shorttime Nana story that I will now share with you…
The dude in question was in a Nana gogo, and met a newbie whom he took an instant shine to. He barfined her and took her to a nearby love hotel, where they did the deed and all was well. But then, the lass fell into a sleep so deep, our hero couldn’t wake her up. (Personally, I’dve pushed her onto the floor.) As time passed, and he got closer to the hour when he’d turn back into a pumpkin, he knew he had to leave. But he didn’t want to just put her cash on the nightstand, in case a hotel employee or someone stole it, I reckon. So he left without paying her. Imagine her angst when she woke up an hour or eight hours later, the dude’s gone, and there’s no money. She must’ve been beside herself. But the story has a happy ending. Our protagonist made sure to come back to the bar the next day and bring the gal her money. He said she lit up like a Christmas tree, absolutely radiating happiness. And in that moment, he said, he remembered why he puts in the hard work of mongering—for the look of joy on the face of a tiny Thai fuck machine as she clutches the cash in her little talons.
As I wound down my drink in Virgin, I noticed what was clearly a post-op ladyboy onstage. And I’m not one to complain about an all-girl gogo, but whoever decided that post-ops are real women needs to get punched in the face. LB tourists go to LB venues for LBs. They shouldn’t be lying in wait in straight bars like landmines. That ain’t right.
Midweek I went for a red curry at Derby King followed by a quick run through the four King’s. K1 was dead at 19.45. I always forget to save it for last, since many of the hotskinnies show up late. The clam who quoted me 5k for shorttime was sat in front of the stage, smiling and batting her lashes as though I’d somehow forget her obscene quote. I nodded at her and then forgot she was there.
K Corner was as sparse as I’ve ever seen it with two rotations of 10 at 20.03. Had a 9 over, a 20-year-old single mom. She wanted 4k shorttime. I laughed in her face.
I think the Thailand redlight scene is going to experience a pricing correction. After Covid, when the world collectively burst from their respective basements and jumped planes to exotic locales to splash out with their cash out, the gals in gogos got to quote ridiculous prices and those sad horny tourists paid them. Now, as we’re headlong into the first real low season since 2019, there’s a rude awakening awaiting these greedy clunge slingers. The post-lockdown heyday is over, and nobody’s salary went up. The only effect must be a pussy re-pricing. Either that, or I’ve been priced-out the way all old expats eventually do. But that’s a topic for a separate blog.
In New2, three chunkers lumbered around the stage like lazy cows in a paddock. I wondered how many of these beefy bawds would quote me 4k for shorttime. Probably all of them.
Lots of tourists (I almost wrote terrorists) of the hijab ilk in the Night Market these days. I guess low season is their peak travel season.
On a rainy weeknight I got an itch 1—to try a new cheeseburger and 2—hit up Soi Cowboy. Now that i know my Bangkok days are numbered, haunts t’Cowboy seem like less of a hassle. My first stop was Barney’s Burger halfway between Gaudi and Craft, on the Craft side of Soi 23. They had smash burgers, but since I’d moved to Thailand before the trend, I wasn’t interested. I opted for the double bacon cheeseburger 250b and tried to order a BeerLao but the dude said booze was for sale at the Thai restaurant next door and I’d have to buy from them. I walked over, perused the fridge, and no one came to help me or offer to sell me one so I said fuck ’em.
Besides the bacon and cheese, the burger had lettuce, tomato, grilled onion, and thousand island dressing twice—on both buns. ‘Twas a monster, bursting with flavor and filling in the way that shepherd’s pie is filling. I savored every bite, but as always happens when I get onion on anything, it’s all I ended up tasting once I’d polished off the burger. Then I waddled to Cowboy, stopping at Stumble Inn for a 150b happy hour Heiney pint while the girls clocked in at their respective gogos. I observed a cutie with just a slightly too-big butt walk into Shark, which surprised me because I don’t remember any lookers working in there. I was perched on the terrace, facing the soi, and an old regular came and sat one seat away, facing me instead of out, like a normal person. My heart filled with dread at the thought of this crotchety geezer trying to chat me up. He did serve as a blockade for the only freelancer, so that was a plus. She looked 40something, chunky, and past expiration. Happily, a barmaid sauntered over and took the old dude’s attention, plying for drinks and stroking his back. But he shooed her away and told her, “I want to talk to this bloke, honey, please leave us.” And she did, and he did, and he turned out to be a great guy. A Perth native, retired widower of a Thai Mrs. He took himself out the dating pool and just frequents the redlights to window shop. After some entertaining banter about US and Aussie tourists and the prospect of finding a new minge to smash in Bangkok, I bade him farewell and made a beeline for Dollhouse and a 105b happy hour Chang. I sat down to Sultans of Swing that synced into One Step Beyond and Don’t Stop Me Now. Hell’s bells, it’s been a while since I heard good music in a gogo. Meanwhile my earbuds pumped Kraftwerk’s Tour de France. It was a musical menagerie of meaningful memories. In a rota of eight, there was one 10 and one 7, who looked familiar. It took a minute to realize she’s an old Patpong star. I walked over and she shouted “Seven!” as I got close. I asked how long she’d been here and if she likes Cowboy better. She said it’s been several months and yes. Then she said, “Seven, don’t tell anyone. You didn’t see me.” I nodded, shook her hand, and bailed.
Rainbow hadn’t opened yet so I slipped into Long Gun where the ping pong shows hadn’t started yet. It was just chunky gals in bikinis and birthday suits, plus one tall 8. I retreated to the terrace to smoke a Backwoods. Foot traffic on the soi was sparse, possibly because of the rain. The girls seemed unaffected. After my smoke I hit Rainbow in search of my galpal Bee, but she wasn’t there. I nursed a vodka soda, hoping the rain would let up so I could motaxi back to Silom.
Virgin’s return has been nothing less than triumphant. Too bad they had no customers. The stage was rammed end to end with 30 dancers in a rota. Four of five were new faces. I spotted a ladyboy in the lineup, a practice I find abhorrent. Like mixing peanut butter with bird shit. Keep ‘em separate, goddammit. With dicks in the mix, how is a noob supposed to navigate the scene? A sex tourist shouldn’t have to tiptoe through a minefield in order to get laid. And the post-ops aren’t any better. What is that? Not a vagine. I call it a coin purse. It’s an internal satchel (intatchel for short) for carrying all manner of things. Coins, dice, mints, keys. It ain’t for fuckin’ I know that much. I hoped it was a temporary thing, as VirginX is supposed to be the one with LBs, and it’s shut temporarily for a remodel. I assume they’re putting in a bath tub like the one in Virgin.
The 2nd rota was 100% new girls. Some were hotskinnies. The owner must’ve used an agency to have so many new dancers in a gogo with no punters. There’s a ladyboy server in there who passes too easily for a clam. She wears a denim miniskirt, trainers, and a polo, and in that get-up you’d swear she’s a real chick. But if she adorns anything else, its instantly obvious. A dancer passed by and I almost grabbed her ass, thinking she was an old galpal from days of yore. Then she turned round and I didn’t recognize her. It was a case of mistaken assdentity. 3 Indian dudes sat down next to me. Two ordered cokes. One got a whiskey. The latter called over a mamasan, pointed at a gal onstsge and asked “How much?” The mama didn’t answer. Instead, she had the dancer over to sit with him. I resisted the urge to tell him she was the previously-mentioned post-op tranny. He managed to choose the only one on the roster.
I didn’t want to hit any more gogos but I felt obligated since I was onPong. So I dragged my ass over to K1. A perfect 10 whom I’d never seen before sat alone off-rota as though she had no friends there. Then I spotted a 9 and began to suspect the tallskinnies from King’s 3 had been moved over to make the stage more crowded. Out in the Night Market, a girl who couldn’tve been more than 5 years old pushed a cart full of earrings and hairpins. The K1 boss pulled her into the gogo and sat her down front, ordering the girls to buy from her. She seemed very uncomfortable yet reluctant to leave without permission. The hostesses and bar staff hovered around her for protection.
In King’s Corner, there were a ton of new hotties in the mix. Everyone in there dances with enthusiasm. It reminds me of the old days. Except now, they’re out of my price range. I wondered absently whether the fatties also charged 4 and 5k for short time. I suppose they would. Why wouldn’t they? I dropped a hundy in the bra of a gal I like. She looked up and said “Seven! I didn’t see you, where were you sitting?” I just shook my head, pinched her nipple, and slid out.
Here’s something I call PLSHIC–post low season holdover interracial couples. It’s farang dudes who came here on holiday, met a lady, and then just didn’t go home. Every man who visits TLOS tries to find ways to stay here. None of us ever wants to leave. But a man who finds a clam to cling to has a special reason for indefinite self-imposed expatriation. He finally has someone to hold hands with, and snog in the restaurant, and spoon at night. Its a whole new world, Disney Aladdin style, for those sad monogamists. You can spot them immediately. They’re the ones who won’t let their girl walk anywhere alone, not even to the loo, for fear some other bloke will snatch her up and whisk her off to Koh Samet while he waits to pay the checkbin. It’s almost as though they expect the bubble to burst, as if getting the girl in the first place was a fluke, and at any moment they might wake up to find it was just a dream. I can’t fault them. I was the same, back in 2010. I’m sure all the old-timers remember their metamorphosis from sex tourist to semi-permanent resident. Going from random one-night shorttimes to long-term human investment is nothing short of a tectonic shift. My initiation came at the hands of an affable PYT in Ao Nang, though she was originally from Udon. She’s the one who taught me to hold a concubine loosely, and how to let them go when they want to leave. She also showed me how to take a clam from the stranger you barfined to a years-long reliable friend with benefits. I made all the textbook rookie errors with her, like getting too attached and trying to assert rules, and putting too much stock in one vagine. But after two years, I was a finely-tuned mongering machine, and it’s been haremic bliss ever since.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is a video montage of King’s girls dancing on various stages. If you’re stuck in your home country and want to feel like you’re sitting stageside with a Chang in your hand, then this video is for you. The link is here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-video-kings-gogo-dancer-montage/
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 put the links on my social every Friday. 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.
I’ve started to sell my artwork in digital download bundles, so if you fancy some gogo dancer-related pictures, mostly nude Thai chicks photoshopped as paintings, you can get ‘em on the cheap at my Etsy shop: https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
Right now I have several bundles of four to five pictures each (as shown below) for under $10 US apiece.
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: Wherever you are in the world—whether stuck in your hometown and reading my posts as an escape, or hunkered down in your Thailand condo, expat-ing your way through life—it’d be a good idea to stock up on essentials. Because although TLOS is pretty much tucked away from everything, once WW3 kicks off, it won’t be long before China works its way over to us. And depending on what kind of cyberwar is waged, there’s a possibility of unrest, or a broken electrical grid, or nuclear fallout. Pack away some extra water, canned beans, beef jerky, etc. just in case, is all I’m saying.
