Holy Moses, what a deluge that was Friday night, ay reader? Punters citywide got soaked. I was trapped in Nana Plaza longer than a monger’d wanna, just getting drunker and drunker outside Twister while a few dozen people sought shelter under Nana’s big roof. Every other aspect of my redlight week was pretty run-of-the-mill. As Caeser might’ve said were he in my Adidas, I came, I saw, I mongered.
Midweek, my harem girl flaked due to too many customers at her coconut milk stand. I had no food or water in the house so I struck Pongward hoping to sink into a chair outside King’s 1 and order up some Derby King. But a bunch of stupid white chicks took up the entire terrace, so I was forced to chow down inside K1. In the end, it wasn’t so bad. In terms of raw numbers, there are more hotties on K1’stage than any other gogo in Bengkok. Offy sat with me for a bit. She drinks tequila-redbulls. I know, it sounds horrific, but I had a sip, and it’s actually not that bad.
One good thing about K1 is, my buddy Ice has returned after trying out NanaP for a week and Pink Panther for a day. She had to leave PP because at the end of her first night, she accidentally wore another girl’s shoes home (she was plastered, and they were identical to the pair she wore to work). This caused an irreversible rift between her and the other Panther girls. Also they were probably jealous at how many drinks she got on her first night. ‘Twas a burnt bridge, that shoe swap.
There were lots of NYS (newyoungskinnies) in there, and a few more over in King’s Corner where—yet again—two fat blonde farang were taking up my usual seat. From there I Bing’d with a sparse crowd and a large team of dancers. In one corner, an American couple received close attention from a trio of girls. The farang girlfriend did her best to be a good sport, no doubt in an effort to please her boyfriend, who seemed unaware his ball and chain was even in the room. Good on her for indulging her man’s yen for hot ass.
By Saturday, half the K Corner girls had moved to King’s Castle 2, the little gogo next door to King’s 1, to fill the vacancies left by the dancers who plan to relocate to the old Strip location once it reopens. But the split didn’t seem to’ve hurt K Corner’s numbers at all. In fact, they gather more NYS and NFTs (new fake titties) on the daily. And jumpin’ Jeeziz, did the barfines fly at the weekend. I saw four between 20.00 and 2030 whilst munching on some spring rolls and moo taut outside K1.
Friday and Saturday the Pong whipped into a frenzy. I got started early with fish tacos and a margarita at Sunrise, then popped over to Shenanigan’s for a Kilkenny pint. The joint was packed with loud revelers. One gaggle of Macbethian hags cackled obnoxiously on the terrace—a glaring reminder that expats aren’t missing anything by not living in the West.
Two drunk, grungy tourists got themselves kicked out of every gogo in Patpong on Friday, starting at the kegs outside King’s 1 where they argued with the barmaid over the 90b price of Leo. From there they got Foodland beers and one by one tried to sit down with those Foodland beers in every bar. A couple hours later I saw them back at K1, sulking over 90b Leos.
The girls I know in Pink Panther these days are a mashup of old Strip, XXX, Bada Bing, Black Pagoda, and King’s girls. Only one BFF is an original, pre-scamdemic Panther girl. Throw into that mix a gang of newbies fresh off the bus from Isaan, and it’s a regular party. From there I hit up Radio City where they’re finally hitting their stride. Their team are a mix of veterans from other bars who’ve gelled well. The atmosphere is friendly, casual, and jovial. I love seeing smiles onstage. It has a real impact on the ole ‘fun meter.’
In pre-hinted-at Patpong-related news, The Strip is set to reopen under a new moniker—Kinky Girls (thanks to Jack Nites for that info), with the same cretin who ran it before, so this portly punter will not darken their door. But I’ll be sure to update you on any comings and goings of hot girls in that bar.
The weekly trip to Cowboy started out per usual with a bj from a harem girl, followed by a lovely mo’taxi ride through the breezy Bangkok night, straight to Oasis for a BBQ burger and Heiney pint. The only open table was in the corner behind four enormous Americans. Two very loud couples. One of the females had a laugh like the late Phyllis Diller. I practically had to crawl over the furniture to get around their collective colossal girth, and turn my mp3 player up to gogo bar level just to drown them out. The server had to hike all the way round the room to reach me. ‘Twas yet another fatal marital mistake, bringing the wives to the redlight. Chances were good that at least one couple would be broken-up by sunrise.
Why do Americans shout at each other when they sit mere inches apart? I mean, I’m American—born in Hollywood, raised in the canyon north of Malibu—but since 2007, I’ve lived in either Europe or Asia. I don’t understand these people anymore. I know they think every thought that passes through the clogged toilet they call a brain is important. I also know they tend to live like they’re the main character in a Netflix series about their lives, and so everything they say is the punchline to a joke. The problem with that mentality is, their lives are mundane and their quips aren’t funny. I think I might’ve been like that in my 20s. Maybe the average person goes through a similar stage. But my generation grew out of it. Millennials never did—at least, not in the US. I haven’t been back to the UK to check their status.
Goddam, the chef it Oasis is fucking slow, though maybe it’s deliberate, because when your food finally arrives it’s like the second coming of Christ. And that burger sure is a home run. Inch-thick beef patty, big onion rings, Texas-style barbecue sauce. It cured my blues instantly.
As I was heading to Dollhouse, I got intercepted by a friend who dragged me into Shark, and damn if they didn’t have a couple new cuties onstage. Just two per rotation, but they were sufficient for gawking at. Dollhouse was festive, as always. They got talent strung along their stage like lingerie on a clothesline. Punters don’t pass through this gogo on their way to somewhere else. They lounge. They stick around. They make a night of it. As I’ve said before, it’s just like the old Electric Blue. And the staff are always so great. The manager, Dennis, is good people. He treats the customers like family. Even the first-timers feel welcome.
I burned so much time in DH that I had to skip Rainbow, which was just as well since Bee has not made her return to the stage post-boob job. She did send me some new selfies, which I’ve included in this week’s YouTube slideshow companion (link below) and her tits look terrific.
NanaP enjoyed what I’d call “steady-quiet” throughout the week. It never got overly-busy, but a constant din of tourist noise flowed like a murmur from Sunday to Thursday, picking up steam at the weekend. On Friday, the Twister girls wore all-black. My pal Oil was decked-out in a black bikini and fishnet stockings. ‘Twas a good night for the bar, where the girls looked particularly fetching and the customers clearly noticed. The uniform policy in Bit T is pretty straightforward—different colored bikinis throughout the week. Sometimes the simplest ideas are the best ones.
At WhiskeyNGogo, Beer and Tong accosted me. I got them soju shots, and in exchange they offered themselves up for some heavy-petting, as we used to call it in the 80s. Both asked separately and privately if they could come to my room. I couldn’t be arsed to bang, so I told them to message me in the morning. Just for laughs, I told Beer I’d only have her over if I could drill her in the ass, a concept she reviled with overt horror. In truth, my sodomizing days are over. I don’t have the courage or energy to get creative in bed anymore. My last foray into the backdoor was in 2018 with a girl from The Strip. Still, it’s fun to hear my girls squeal and recoil at the empty threat. Before bailing, I folded a hundy into Gift’s gigantic tits as she shook them beauteous balloons onstage.
Then I swung into Angelwitch to catch a show and look for a girl who I’d spotted earlier in the week—a PYT with a sweet back tattoo and even sweeter ass (see this week’s photo slideshow). She wasn’t there, but I did spy a nearly perfect 9 onstage that kept me there one beer longer than I should’ve. And that’s when the rain set in. After trying and failing to bail out of Nana three times, I went back to Twister and sat alone with a Cuban cigar and a Godfather on the rocks. I got so trashed I barely remember charging out into the rain and flagging down a taxi. I do remember the water flooding up over the curb. Bloody hell, what a storm.
Despite the spate of bad weather, the overall takeaway from the week was, all 3 redlights enjoyed an upbeat, profitable seven days. And judging by the undulating waves of tourists ebbing and flowing into BKK like the tide, chances are good that the RLD will come out on top by Christmas. Here’s hoping the trend continues.
Quick off-topic winge: all week, Twitter has tried shoving sports down my throat. Sports and farang milfs—two things I couldn’t have less interest in. I stopped caring about grown man playing children’s games in high school, and white chicks of any age are just grotesque. But white chicks over 30 are a special kind of awful. I get why Twitter does it, thought. The algorithm knows I’m a single, middle-aged Caucasian, and most in that category need sports and milfs to distract them from the wretched state of their lives. What Twitter doesn’t seem to factor in is, I live in motherfucking Thailand where the old white dude is a demigod. Twitter doesn’t know I keep a harem of nine girls who are all fit and under 30. I forgive the ghost in the machine for its ignorance. It’s the same lack of knowledge that keeps 99% of Western douchebags from coming here, and for that I’m eternally grateful.
Last week, I started selling copies of my artwork, as well as photo albums from gogo bars past and present. This week, I added a spread from The Strip circa 2022 plus two art albums. In both, I used an AI app to transform photos of dancers into anime characters. One has some racy pics of Oil, and she looks incredible if I do say so myself. All are for sale for digital download at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart
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
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: When the gogo gets a new farang manager, don’t bother getting to know him. He’ll make it easy by acting like he’s the cock of the walk, not realizing he’ll be gone in short order and replaced with a new dork. Ignore his lack of respect. He doesn’t know you’ve been in the redlight since he was in diapers and will still be there long after he’s gone. In a month or two, he’ll be back on his parents’ sofa in their suburban Paris or Norwich flat, or wherever.
