What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. I’m officially over the Bangkok redlight, friends. It’s a shit show, and I want out. At time of posting, I have seven more days to endure before making my triumphant move to Pattaya, where I expect to bask in the glow of bar girls and gogo hussies for the remainder of my days. And so this post—and next week’s—will cover my final nights as a BK redlight local. I do plan to return once in a while, because my number 2 concubine has insisted I come back to smash her from time to time, so don’t fret if you enjoy reading about Patpong. I’ll get back round to it. But do get ready to hear the detailed events of a monger’s renewed interest in all the sleaze Ptown has to offer. Between now and then, though, I’m still torturing myself with this Bangkok redlight life. Here’s how last week shook out…
On Sunday my former number 1 concubine, who stopped coming over in March because she moved in with her bf who doesn’t know I exist but keeps her on a short leash, and the final reason for my decision to move to Ptown, messaged to say she missed me and would try to see me one last time before I go. I guess never underestimate the power of an orgasm. I doubt her putz of a partner can give her one. It gave me hope of a future where she and I meet up in BK a few times a year to revel in each other’s naked company. She’s a real spitfire in the bedroom.
Later that night, I had a craving for Barcelona Gaudi over on Suk 23. I think it’s the start of a small farewell restaurant tour leading up to my relocation. I got eggplant and mushroom croquettes, Parma wrapped melon, and steak strips with a glass of Ave de Presa Joven Airen from La Mancha for the first three and Marques de Caceres Crianza from Rioja. The Serrano and melon was sweetly carnal, the culinary equivalent of losing one’s virginity. The mushroom bombas had pumpkin and potato as well, and were quite filling. The eggplant had goat cheese mixed in, and were absolutely superb. And I was full after just that magical flavor folly. But then came the steak and tempranillo-garnacha blend. The meat was cooked rare, and melted into my mouth like chocolate. The wine was obscenely divine. Whoever made it deserves to have a statue erected in every town in Spain. The aroma alone made me heady, and when the wine seemed into my physiognomy, I believed for the briefest moment that I was back at a bistro on LA Rambla, except instead of throngs of beautiful Spaniards, I was amidst a trickling stream of stupid tourists meandering back and forth from Soi Cowboy. 1770b all in and worth every satang.
From Gaudi, it was a simple stroll to Crazy House, where two buxom dames strutted about on stage. Two others bounced on the laps of customers, meaning that rota had four birds in it. The second had just one fattie in a miniskirt. Lord, how the House has fallen. Then I had my last mini Cuban and a SML on the Dollhouse terrace, not sure I’d even bother going inside, but eventually did. There were five girls onstage. One of them was hot. The other three were chunkers. Rota two was total cunkation. I don’t know why I come to Cowboy anymore. Everyone’s fat.
In an effort to stall, waiting for Rainbow to open so I could say hi to Bee, I slipped into Tilac. They had nine chubbies onstage, and the mamasan persisted in pestering me. Within minutes, she chased me out of there. I didn’t think I could hold out for Rainbow. But they were open, with one girl onstage. I messaged Bee to let her know I was there. Two Japanese fuckers came in, whooping and whoa-ing like they were the only cunts in the world. I was the only customer, yet they chose to sit directly behind me and kick the back of my seat repeatedly. I wondered how much damage I could do with the tactical baton in my man satchel before quietly moving spots. One twat ordered a glass of wine, and thensent it back without trying it. Evidently they didn’t fill the glass enough. I know Thailand attracts a lot of losers, but I’m still shocked when I encounter them in public. Bee was MIA so I hurried t’Pong and Virgin where there were more hot girls on one stage than all of Soi Cowboy. And it’s clear there are girls in there that’re suffering. Low season is cruel. But some of them are broads who I freely invited to get on the Seven gravy train. So I have no sympathy for them. Had they capitulated, they’d be sitting pretty now. It’s their fault for not being forward-thinking.
K1 had only four open seats when I arrived. The stage was 9/10 new gals, but there was nothing else to hold my interest so I necked my drink and headed home.
On Tuesday my default number 1 conc came over for actual intercourse—something i rarely do these days—and after she left I realized I had no food in the house, so off t’Pong I went for dinner at Derby King and a Drew Estate Papas Fritas on the K1 terrace. My friend Pim walked past and stopped to lounge in my lap. “Seven where have you been?” she asked. “Where have I been, where have you been?” I replied. I went to dance in Phuket, she said, and then went inside. The mamasan said, “It’s good you didn’t come last night. There were no girls on account of the rain, but there are lots of them here tonight.” So after my stogie I found a seat in the gogo. She wasn’t wrong. There were already two rotations of 20. Pim was already sat with another old farang so I was free to reuse the new talent. I spotted three new Seven-worthy clams plus a lot who’d make the grade after a few cocktails. My old pal Nok, who migrated to K1 from thigh bar after it changed hands, got called over by a very unattractive nipon for a ladydrink. They haggle for 10 minutes before he gave up and bailed. I guess she was out of his price range. But hell, if I had a mug like his I’d set extra cash aside for the odd expensive shorttime, because who knows when he’ll get a chance at ass that hot in the future? Then again, maybe he’s not picky. Personally I wouldn’t nail her, because she put on too many kilos, and by too many, I mean one.
I was the first punter in K2 at 21.05. There were six chunkers onstsge, a depressing sight after their strong opening only eight months earlier. Where’d all the hotties go? Maybe it’s a low-season slump. For the length of a vodka soda, no other customers entered the joint.
The Night Market was lousy with families for some reason. I counted a dozen 10 year old boys who started puberty by gazing through the entrance to a king’s gogo. In K Corner, a wild party was taking place. The girls were in a frenzy, and wilding out like they didn’t even notice there were dudes in the seats. Then I saw why. A fat tattooed farang had adorned a red bikini and was prancing around the bar like a cow that escaped the paddock. If I’dve had an elephant gun, I would’ve shot her in her fat gut and mounted her head on my wall. She gyrated around like a pig with Parkinsons while the dancers cheered her on. It ruined my whole night. When she tired herself out and sat down, the dancers grabbed baby wipes and cleaned all the poles that she touched. I feel like it wasn’t enough. They should’ve bleached the stage.
Virgin had two 10-girl rotations with three fuckables in each, and five customers. Those are great monger odds. If my balls hadn’t been drained a few hours earlier, I might’ve made a play for one. My galpal Yok came to sit for a spell. She mentioned that the owner gave up on VirginX and sold the space, which means any day now it’ll reopen as a gay bar.
On Thursday I Ponged again for the fourth time in five days, mainly because it rained again, which meant I’d have Soi 1 mostly to myself. A few persistent goddam cunting tourists showed up, but they made haste for drier locales. I sparked up a Drew Estate Nasty Fritas. It’s the kind of cigar that naturally puts people off. It is, in a word, potent. Or at least, I thought as much. Despite being alone on the K1 terrace, with a dozen empty seats, a Thai man ambled over and sat right next to me. I puffed harder on my stogie hoping to offend his sensibilities and fuck if it didn’t work like a charm. He was up and gone in under a minute. Then The Killers mocked me from my earbuds with “When You Were Young.” Buddha bless Brandon Flowers and his Millennial illiteracy. “The devil’s water it ain’t so sweet… but you can dip your feet every once ‘and’ a little while” instead of IN a little while, the sure sign of a 90s kid who never read a book in school. Then Julian Casablancas crooned “Left and Right in the Dark,” an apropos metaphor for the monger’s life. Then Scotland’s greatest heroes since William Wallace, Glavegas, covering “Acrobat” by U2. I don’t know how I’d survive this life without great music. And then, because my taste is eclectic, “Cool Like Dat” by Digable Planets. I saw them rap live at my uni. They were so pissed off that Caucasians were in the crowd. “Our music isn’t for you,” they shouted mid-set. Not every Blafrican American is a racist cunt, but a shit ton of them are. I’d forgotten to eat, so the cigar had me spinning and sweaty. I limped into King’s 1 for a SML to level out. I spied three girls whom I’d instantly barfine, and ironically, the S&P 500 did so well this month, I could actually afford their pussy price-gouge, but it’s all for naught now that I’m days away from leaving Bangkok. My current harem has filled all open slots for the week.
K1 was full despite the rain, but keeps corner was remarkably empty at half 9. At least there were no fatties, ugly farang prancing about onstage. I welcomed wais from half a dozen girls, and settled in to peruse the talent, of which there were many. Jane’s Addiction provided the soundtrack. A lone weird-looking farang took the seat next to mine. He seemed more interested in me than the clunge. I idly fingered the weapon in my pocket, just in case he decided to get fresh. What I carry won’t kill a man, but it’ll break a rib, or sinus cartilage. There’s only one twat in Thailand whom I’d happily murder. If you read my posts regularly, you know who he is.
There’s a new girl in the Corner who reminds me of a Patong barfine from the early 2010s. Her name was Jeem, and I got her out of the now-closed Rock Hard A-Gogo on Bangla Road. She was so hot that, after I got done railing her, she sprawled out on the bed, and her body was so incredible, I instantly got excited again and banged her again. That’s the only time I’ve pulled off a stunt like that whilst in TLOS. As I sipped my cocktail, Michael Jackson sang “Get me out into the nighttime, four walls won’t hold me tonight.” If that’s not a redlight anthem, I don’t know what is. Tell ‘em that it’s human nature.
In the booth behind me, a nipon got in an argument with a mamasan about barfine prices. I know that sometimes things get lost in translation, but life is too short to bicker with Bangkok bar staff about 500 baht. Just pay it and leave, for fuck’s sake. Your one-hour girlfriend is primed and ready. Do you want to get laid or not?
It was blue bikini night in Virgin. A girl I nearly conc’d a year ago if not for her ice habit was back after a long hiatus, looking particularly fuckable. But she stumbled around the stage in the throes of that familiar ice-high, so I remained truculent.
On Saturday I saw a FB post with a Mai Tai on it and suddenly wanted one. As a Gen Xer, adverts don’t work on me. In fact if my life is interrupted by an ad for a thing, I go out of my way to not buy it. But this was just a random photo of a cocktail and that stuck on my brain like gum on a shoe. So I combed my hair and hit a bolt bike for hooters Nana, where I was sure they had Mai Tais. Imagine my chagrin to find they didn’t. So I ordered an orange Hooterade and buffalo tacos. Bunny and kickoff had a couple of old solo punters having a quiet drink alone or chatting up a hostess. Stumble inn, meanwhile, was rammed with groups of fucking dudes having animated conversations. God, what torture it must be to sit within earshot of all that gobshite. In my entire life, I’ve never had an interesting conversation in a pub. I supposed that’s because I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what other people do, think, or say, which is mainly due to the fact that 90% of the people walking the Earth are idiots. The good news for you is, if you enjoy my blog you’re probably not one of them.
After googling Mai Tais in the Nana area and coming up empty, I decided to strike out blindly. Stupid, I know, but the only downside was getting drunk on not Mai Tais, so I scooted over to the Landmark with fingers crossed. As i stepped out of Hooter’s, I saw a man in his late 60s barfining a 40 year old out of kickoff, giving me hope that in 10 years’ time, i might still be getting trim in tlos.
The Landmark has been remodeled with a front area of bars and eateries called Quad. The bar at the front serves a Mai Tai, so I plopped down on a stool, drooling with anticipation. I give theirs a 7.5 out of 10. It didn’t have the different colored strata of what I, as a barfly who cut his teeth in the LA-chic bars of Southern California, am used to. In fact, the drink is more native to my home than this faraway Asian paradise.
The refurbished Landmark is a marvel. Were I a repeating Bangkok tourist, I’d make it one of my go-to places to stay. It’s quiet, unassuming, and sophisticated, a cut below the ostentatiousness of, say, Anantara. It lacks that stick-up-the-butt atmosphere. And for some reason, a dozen or so hot Thai chicks were hanging out in their pajamas at the coffee shop.
Given my proximity to The Game, I felt it was only right to text their boss, the Bangkok prince, to ask if they make a Mai Tai. “I’ll make sure they do,” was his reply. “You going now? I’ll meet you there.” And just like that, I was canceling my scheduled bj and signing on for a binge session. I made it to The Game just as the evening’s first drops of rain began to fall.
The Game’s Mai Tai gets a 9 of 10. I had four of them whilst chatting up the prince about life in BKK. He wasn’t surprised to hear I’m moving to Ptown. He himself is building a house in Rayong for a future retirement that could come anytime. We’re all just waiting to see what happens. In Thailand, it’s a crap shoot. Will you live to a ripe old age, shuffling down Soi 6 at 90 in a faded Leo vest and frayed swim trunks, or up and croak tomorrow? One can only wait and see.
At 19.00 I motaxi’d t’Pong for a double ruskie and Banana Backwoods, my 3rd of the night because the prince likes to smoke. The tourist demographic outside The Game different from Patpong. The Pong is rife with dirty hippies, solo sex tourists, nipons and families. The pavement along BTS Nana is mostly Arabs, plus a lot of Blafricans and working Thais, whether that means office professionals or freelancers.
Four fat American clams approached the Super Pussy ping pong show, and the fattest one took up negotiating with the Thai guy out front. Clearly her girth gave her authority because she laid into him like someone who’d done at minimum one hour of ping pong research on the internet. After 5 minutes, they balked, and I mourned the loss of the sight of them after the show, when their psyches would be shattered forever. Because no one watches a lady suck a goldfish into her vagina without being irrevocably changed. If I ever get elected prime minister of Thailand I’m going to make it mandatory for every female Caucasian tourist to sit through a ping pong show in Suvarnabhumi before they get to Immigration.
At 19.40 I was the 2nd punter inside K1. After 5 Mai Tais, a Hooterade, and a double ruskie, I knew I wouldn’t be out long. But when there’s clunge to be ogled, this monger’s going to get an eyeful. My friend Pim came to sit with me and massage my balls. She asked when I was moving to Ptown, then said she’d be heading to Phuket in 4 days. She complained about the lack of customers in Bangkok. I told her she could come over to my place anytime and go down on me for 2,000 baht. She said she’s never gone with a foreigner and was too scared. I told her it was her loss.
The stage in K Corner was as sparse as I’ve seen it in months, likely due to the persistent rain that started half an hour before. The night was turning into a dud, and all I wanted to do at that point was go home and watch the latest episode of Dexter Resurrection. Don’t get me wrong—it’s not a good series. But it reminds me of my last farang girlfriend who was obsessed with the original show and loved to fuck while watching it.
There’s no Members Only Gallery this week, because as I posted last week, Stripe—the paywall gateway—has closed my account, calling my content “sexual.” So I can’t in good conscience add any new Members, and current Members will lose access to all MO content on the 29th. You have an Aussie named Greg Hawk to thank, because when he signed up and then decided he didn’t want to be a Member anymore, instead of canceling his membership he disputed the charge with his bank, causing a chain reaction that led to my account getting shut down. Greg Hawk, the cunt piece of shit, has done this to all of us, Members. I’m working on finding a new paywall gateway, so hopefully the MO content will continue, though those who already purchased a Membership will lose that $12. Thank Greg Hawk the retard for that.
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: White Claw is dog shit.
When I first moved to Thailand, the drink called White Claw didn’t exist. It came to prominence while I was in Asia, so when I returned to Cali to visit, the Western obsession with that beverage was a mystery to me. Not enough of a mystery to try it, though. No no, it wasn’t until White Claw made its way to Thailand that I finally gave it a go, last week. God in Heaven, what a horrible can of absolute ass leakage. If you’re in Thailand, and its Western popularity tempts you to try White Claw, or if you’re American and you have already tried it, or drink it regularly, kill yourself. You are a piece of shit and you should not be allowed to share the same planet as me. Fuck you right in your shitty, shitty asshole.
