What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
At time of posting, I’m sitting in my mother’s living room on a rainy Southern California evening. It’s day two of a 4-week self-imposed prison sentence that I endure every year to appease those friends and family who stubbornly refuse to admit the West is disintegrating and escape while there’s still time. It’s my chance to eat In-N-Out burger and authentic Mexican food, drink excellent wine, and hang out with the handful of high school chums who still keep in touch. Those are the upsides. The rest is a nightmare.
Let me begin this tirade, though, with my Sunday to Thursday redlighting.
Sunday was St Patrick’s Day, the first in fact that I’ve spent in BKK in years. Typically, I’m already back in Cali by that time. This year, I was at a table in Paddy Reilly on Sathorn Soi 12 by 13.00. ‘Twas good timing, because the joint was at capacity by 13.30. I got the weekend brunch with lamb, because I can’t resist it, plus a couple glasses of house red on freeflow. So no, I didn’t even drink a Guinness on St Pad’s.
In my 20s, St Paddy’s usually consisted of daylong drinking at a restaurant in Calabasas called Sagebrush—sometimes with a group of porn stars who were friends through a series of fateful mistakes I made in my youth. We’d compete to see who could drink the most Irish Car Bombs before getting thrown out. All I remember from the last one was waking up in the booth of a restaurant half a mile away, eating all of Jenna Haze’s french fries, and then passing out again.
Then in the late 2000s, I moved to Essex, where St Pad’s was a raucuse holiday. My experience was even more so, since one of my mates was a little Irish lady who’d majored in Irish history at uni and so knew all to well the atrocities committed by the Brits against her people, so by half 10 on the 17th when all the English townsfolk got to singing old Irish balads, she’s be screaming, “Fook da Anglish, ya bloody cunts!” and swinging at any bloke who got too close to our table. My last Paddy’s in the UK was spent in Piccadilly Circus in 2009, after I’d quit my job and moved back to the US. I’d returned to London on holiday, and my English exgf got wind I was in town, so she took the train in to see me one last time. We had dinner, walked the Thames, and when she boarded the train back to Colchester, I gave her a wine-soaked kiss that I hoped she’d remember for the rest of her life. A year later, she was married, and her ass was a big as that train car.
At 20.30 I moseyed to Virgin and sat outside with a KFC and double SoCo. Soi 2 was Sunday quiet, as was the Virgin stage. From 20-girl rotas two days prior to 5 at a time. Some sad doucher tried to walk out on his one-Chang checkbin. A server chased after him and he retaliated by bringing two girls in from the terrace and buying them ladydrinks. A minute later, one of the girls walked him to the ATM. I tried to wait around to see if he’d attempt another drink-n-dash but didn’t have the patience.
There were no open seats in K1 so I pivoted to KII where 10 girls lit the stage aflame. ‘Twas fitting they were all adorned in red lingerie. After one vodka, I tried K1 again, and slid into the last open seat two seconds ahead of a demure nipon. He threw his hands in the air, and a barmaid guided him to a corner like a hurt puppy. It filled my heart with joy to take his spot. I wanted to flaunt it in his face as if to say, yeah this white barbarian got one over on you, but instead I pulled out my phone and typed the event to put it in this blog later.
The Pong’s typical slowness on a Sunday is not a thing in K1. And to think, back during the tourist ban, the entire King’s Group almost threw in the towel. I’d like to think my faithful patronage helped keep them going during that 2-year nightmare. I was in there seven nights a week, buying drinks for the girls who would sit outside on the soi, not dancing, in cocktail dresses. For a year, it was me and maybe five other guys who poured their cash into the King’s endeavor. In a small way, we helped to save this redlight empire.
Afterwards, I had a Leo draft on the terrace and watched the tourcus (tourist circus). Two blafricans took half an hour to negotiate for a pair of knock-off watches.
On Monday I tried to keep up what I hope to make an exercise routine in the form of a midday walk down Sathorn Road from Soi Convent and up Rama 4. It’s a fun time to be out. The streets are rammed, and seeing lost tourists suffering in the heat is rewarding. But I inevitably get waylaid, either in Roadhouse or Shenanigan’s, and what happens there negates all cardio I might’ve put in. This time, it was Shags, where I put away a plate of chicken balls and salt-chili wings with a pint of Tiger before returning home for a quick nap.
My Monday conc cancelled so I struck out Pongward at 19.40, stopping at the pharmacy for pain meds and antibiotics. I don’t need them at the moment, but knowing I’d be a month in the US where medicine costs more than gold, should the need for them arise I didn’t want to have to trade a kidney for a pill that costs $6 in TLOS.
The Three King’s were open before 20.00, though most of the girls hadn’t arrived. Consequently, there were plenty of seats. I had a vodka in the Corner first, and was pleased to see two new LTSs (long tall Sally’s) in the mix. KII had two rotations of three girls each at 20.15. A little bald slimeball who menaced the girls over several nights the previous week was back, doing his usual shtick of browsing all gogo stages without staying for a drink. Back when I was too poor for the gogo—and that was true for my first four years in country—I did the sensible thing and saved up all month to splash out once on payday weekend So yes, it’s possible to be a Cheap Charlie while also preserving a semblance of class. This guy—who buys a beer in K1 and drinks it in KII—has none. And look, I remember a time where a gogo stage looked to me like a yummy human whoregasbord, and I a drooling shopper looking for a shorttime slab of meat. But after 14 years in the redlight, it’s impossible to blind oneself to the fact that every one of those stiletto-heeled wonders is a human being, most with hearts of solid gold, who only want two things: rent money and happy customers. So when I swarthy pervert stalks around the stage like a racoon around a grocery store dumpster, it spreads an air of ick that puts me right off my drink. It doesn’t matter if you’re a basement-dwelling incel back home, or a fat loser with no prospects outside the redlight, or a sex tourist on the hunt for a one-hour session—as long as you’re polite, you’re golden. If you’re the town letch where you come from, you can reinvent yourself in Thailand, simply by showing some manners. And if you don’t have any, rent the first “Superman” film with Christopher Reeve, and imitate how he acts in that movie. Voila! Instant charm.
As sparse as the stage was in KII, there were three girls in the 2nd rotation that, five years ago, Id’ve made instant concubines. Now I’m too old and tired. And lazy. But Lord, were they ever a trio of tantileyesers. Next, I grabbed my usual chair on the terrace, ordered a black ruskie, and lit up an Acid Blondie, feeling the muscles in my lower back relax at the first puff. I’ve told this story before, but it bears repeating. When I was 20, I had horrible back pain. The doctor had me on Vicodin and muscle relaxers, and I went to physical therapy twice a week. The therapist said the only way to fix my back was with surgery, where they’d shave bone off my shin and use it to fuse two vertebrae together. But before they could put the knife to me, I discovered an alternate cure: three beers and a cigar. 30 years later, I never got the surgery and my back only bothers me if I put on too much weight. Also, I learned about anterior pelvic tilt. If you have lower back problems, YouTube it, and you’re welcome in advance.
As the cigar buzz lingered in my senses like the aftermath of a remembered dream, I floated into K1 and ordered a vodka. When the barmaid brought the bin, the boss snatched it from her, wrote his name on it, and sent her away. I don’t’ know what I did to earn free drinks in the King’s bars but I’m not going to jinx it. I’ll just keep waiing and saying ‘thanks.’ I spied three new sexbombs onstage before the rotation. The Japanese contingent were decidedly more refined than the last time I was in. After buying my drink, the boss crept onstage and started pulling girls’ knickers off. It’s the thing that drives the Asian set crazy. And speaking of, I realized my use of the word “Asian” might confuse some British readers, because in the UK that word includes people from India and Pakistan. For clarification, to a yank an Asian means everyone east of India and Pakistan. Just a clarification for you limeys.
At half 9, Virgin’s stage was packed with a 20-girl rotation and the party rocked like it was 2019. The stable of hotties in that joint is formidable, albeit mixed in with a crew of chunksters. I polished off a Heiney in there and, if I still had a day job, that’s when Id’ve called it a night. But suddenly I was overwhelmed with the urge to hit Nana, and since I knew that in a few days I’d be trapped in Cali, and since I might get hit by a bus any day, I hopped a motaxi t’Nana, weeded through the throngs on Soi 4 and making a beeline for Earn and Beer’s bar.
The place was going off, and said pair of cooters leaped from the stage to my seat, and took turns massaging my junk for half an hour, after which I ambled over to Angelwitch in time for a show. ‘Twas a kind of Faustian lesbian (Faustesbian?) story with a less on a bed, a temptress in a skull mask, and a tomboy dressed like a priest. The whole thing was choreographed to “It’s a Sin” by the Pet Shop Boys. It brought back strange memories, both of seeing them live at the Hollywood Bowl, and of being raised in the Baptist Church. The whole catholic priest thing was foreign to me, but the guilt/shame/orgasm motif was all too familiar. The next show blew the first one out of the water, namely because it was set to “Master and Servant” by Depeche Mode. Were the girls too chubby for Seven? Sure. But I’ll forgive just about anything if Depeche is involved.
Geisha was a zoo, with two perfect 10s in the bubble bath and a wide range of sizes throughout the rest of the joint. Six very drunk and handsy Americans molested everyone within grabbing distance, including the barmaids. I get it. The first time a cunt Westerner experiences the Bangkok redlight, it’s a revelation. In 2015-2016 I used to try to see how many Patpong girls would let me stick a finger in their ass in the gogo. I’m ashamed of that behavior now, but when I see it in other noobs, I understand.
At the rotation, the 10s in the tub were replaced by 6s so I necked my beer and bailed. Plus, 20 shmucks rushed in like a herd of idiots on parade. If my seat had had an eject button, I would’ve pushed it. At 23.30 I left the Plaza and found a perch at Hooter’s. At that point I was completely off-piste on the night. I got a margarita and a plate of boneless wings, feeling like I’d fallen overboard from the usual Titanic debacle of my life. Freelancers made come-hither eyes. Foreign douche nozzles surrounded me on all sides. I felt like a balloon cut loose from its tether. Then the wings showed up without dipping sauce and I was immediately snapped back to reality. In my drunken, blue cheeleless state, I nearly burned down the Hooter’s. It took 10 minutes to flag down a waitress and request a sauce for dipping, while resisting the urge to kill everyone in sight. As soon as the dip arrivied, I inhaled my snack and lurched like Quasimodo to the motaxi stand.
On Tuesday I had to go to MBK to pick up a new pair of glasses and buy tchotchkes for my mum and brother. So of course, I popped t’Pong afterward to smoke a stogie and watch the dancers come to work. The market was already rammed with white clam and dudes too early for the redlight. A bald 40something American walked up to the K1 bounces and asked, “Is this a bar?” “Gogo,” replied the bouncer. Then the yank made a defeated face and, ignoring the dude’s response, held up a beer bottle. “…cuz I already have a drink.” I surmised it was an act—an elaborate charade meant to make all onlookers believe he’d “accidentally” found the redlight. A telltale sign of a low-IQ narcissist is, they’re always acting, as though a film camera was always pointed at them and every moment of their life was being projected onto an eternal movie screen. They’re self-aware in the way that the cast of “Friends” always were. I think that’s why Americans behave that way. They learned it by watching that show.
In order not to suffocate the off-duty dancers, I’ve started smoking my cigar off to the side of the seating area. At first glance, it might look to strangers like I’m some kind of redlight royal, perched atop a throne. And while it’s true I’m the Baron Von Pong, just to keep me from becoming full of myself, I’m positioned two feet from a garbage can.
On Wednesday, the universe smirked at ole Seven. My concubine flaked, and five minutes later a different conc messaged to ask if I was free. Well sure as shit, I was. She scampered over to mine on her way to work, and after doing her duty, I walked her to the motaxi, which meant I was already on the street and so…might as well Pong. 18.45 was too early for the gogos so I flanked round to Guido’s for some bratwurst and sauerkraut, accompanied by a Karlsbrau Lager, which was damn tasty. For any middle-aged mongers reading this, I recommend getting kraut into your regular diet. It’s rich in probiotics, which are good for gut health. And God knows at our age, in this country, we need all the gut help we can get. But I digress.
I hadn’t planned properly, and as a result, was forced to pair a black ruskie with a Fat Bottom Betty. The FBBs go better with a nice glass of shiraz, or a single malt, but ‘twas too early in the evening for the latter, plus the K1 staff automatically pour me a BR when they see me walking down the soi. And so I mismatched my alky and tabaky. But this, my friends, is a mere Thailand problem. TPs are not real Ps. My friends in the US are watching their country collapse around them, and I’ve got the wrong cigar for my cocktail.
A fat, 50s Brit passed by, pursued by a ping pong barker. He was arguing with the Thai: “I don’t like shows. No, I don’t like.” The Thai said, “Never try, never know.” The douche shot back, “I did try already. One time, one time, “ while waving a finger in the air. All of this was spoken at the top of the bloke’s lungs. Gentlemen, please tell all your newbie visiting friends, “Mai ow krab.” That’s all anyone needs. And I know I’m preaching to the choir, but fuckleberry finn, we seasoned mongers must teach the noobs. And the thing about this guy was, he clearly isn’t a noob. He was probably one of those dudes who’ve been coming to TLOS since the 80s but never learned a thing about the culture or the language.
Two KII dancers came out for a smoke and said, “Seven you come every day.” Little did they know that, starting Friday, I’d be M.I.A. for a month.
As I smoked my Better, I caught a glimpse of movement on the yellow canopy above the Night Market stalls. Somehow—probably by dropping from one of the wires crisscrossing Soi 1—a rat had become trapped up there and was doing desperate, thorough circles around one end of the tarp, looking for a means of escape. More than once, it looks like it might leap onto the head or shoulder of a passerby. That would’ve been a hoot.
It was then that I was hit with a wave of depression. It comes once a year, always at the same time: 48 hours before my flight to the US. If I had my druthers, I’d never leave Thailand. But my mum hasn’t got many years left, plus my old high school buddies look forward to catching up. They live vicariously through tales of my debauched bachelorhood and meager exploits. But fucking fucknuts, reader. Do I ever despair at the thought of going back to that hellhole. Trump once allegedly called countries like Haiti and Venezuela “shithole countries.” Ironically, America is now a shithole country. Its freedoms are scant. Its streets are rife with criminals, its seats of govt equally so. A WEF, New World Order neo-fascist reset is near completion over there. By 2030, I doubt any semblance of that once great nation will remain. The country I loved is already gone. I’ve never heard similar things from British friends. They say they don’t recognize their home anymore. I guess we Southeast Asian expats should consider our good fortune at choosing a locale that’s well outside the woke coup taking place in the West.
KII was lowkey at 20.30. In K Corner, a new barmaid had never heard of a vodka soda. She kept pointing at soda water on the menu, and I realized I was mispronouncing “vodka” for a Thai ear. So I ordered a wodka leh sodaaaaa. Her eyes went wide. “You want wodka AND soda?” It all worked out in the end.
K1 was half full at 21.30. Offy accosted me per usual. She’s not someone I’d ever take to bed but she’s fun to hang with in the gogo. K1 had a new server as well. At least he’d heard of a vodka-soda.
The crew at Virgin are miraculous. They’re an eclectic hodgepodge of dancers from other Patpong bars and Bangkok at large who’ve coalesced to form a kind of Justice League of vagine. A Guardians of the Gogo, so to speak. A Teen Titans of T’n’A. The reason it’s miraculous is, Thai dancers are naturally catty, territorial, and possessive. Though I guess it makes sense. Virgin was conjured from the ashes of Glamour. ‘Twas a clean slate, if you will. A Casablanca of whoredom. A Switzerland of snatch. An oasis of ass—an “oass-is.”
A new-ish girl kept making eye contact and smiling—a move that likely gets wild success with the tourists, but for this hangdog hair pie hammerer, it was just plain awkward.
On Thursday, I woke up at 6 am from pure anxiety over my flight to the United nazi States on Friday. And then I did something I’ve never done before. I got two haircuts in a single day. The first one cut around four inches from a scraggly mane that had me looking homeless for the past year. But after a couple hours and side glances at the mirror, I realized it was still too long, and went back and had the barber take another crack at it. After that, I went to G’s for a Karlsbrau Kellerbier and flammkuchen. Also enjoying German fare were Jack Nites and brother-in-mongering Andy, who were in the neighborhood for meetings with some gogo owners and a video shoot in KII. I limped t’Pong at half 7, bought a double SoCo from Virgin, which wasn’t open yet, and walked it over to a table outside K1 to smoke a Kentucky Fire Cured. Who else could get away with bringing a cocktail from gogo to drink at another? In Patong, nobody. Just the Baron.
For the 2nd time in as many nights, a solo middle-aged falam (foreign clam) sat down at the table next to mine and spent half an hour casting side glances, though whether she thought she’d get lucky or was merely annoyed at the cigar smoke, I couldn’t say.
And that was how my last few days of pre-US trip redlighting ended. I’ve got a play-by-play of the journey from Suvarnabhumi to LAX. But that’s for next Sunday’s post.
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-related stuff on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
Artwork and photo albums from inside the gogos are available for digital download at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart at super-low prices.
Slideshows from previous blogs going back several years can be found at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
Follow me on Twitter/X @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, 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.
Thai chick-related posters and prints on canvas can be found at
https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
Pro Tip Post-Script: When making a long journey overseas, wear a shirt you don’t care about, and put an extra in your carry-on. When you get to your layover destination, go to the toilet and remove your shirt, and toss it in the bin. Put on the clean shirt for the 2nd leg of the trip. Your nostrils and co-passengers will thank you.
