What’s up reader, how they hangin’? How’re you enjoying the constant rain in Bangkok lately? Shouldn’t rainy season be winding down? WTF is going on? Anyway, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
Last Sunday I was onPong to hang with Jack Nites while he did a photo shoot in King’s 2. I arrived early to smoke a Romeo Y Julieta outside K Corner, feeling every muscle in my body turn to butter. I can’t remember if I told you, but when I was 20 I had terrible back pain. I went to physical therapy twice a week, and the doctor said I’d need surgery to fuse two vertebrae together. I was on tons of muscle relaxers and Vicodin, and life was pure misery. Then one day I smoked a Padron Anniversario and had three beers, and it was like a weight was lifted off me. My back completely relaxed, as if Jesus himself had healed me. From then on, I didn’t need prescription drugs, and since moving to Thailand haven’t had any pain at all, likely because this monger’s dreamlife is almost entirely stress-free. But mostly, it’s the tobacco and beer. I never did get the surgery. So much for the pill pushers and their bullshit. If I smoke ganja, I fall asleep. If I do cocaine, I get nauseous. But Cuban cigars and a Black Russian are just what this doctor ordered.
Arriving at King’s 2 too early, I had some Derby King delivered while Jack and his buddy Andy set up their gear. They flitted back and forth between K1 and K2, taking pics and video with the help of the managers. After the photo shoot I did a circuit—all three King’s, Pink Panther, Bada Bing, Radio City. In the Bing I unknowingly dropped 300 baht and the staff tracked me down in RC to return it. Thai people for the win, again.
Remember when you were young, and you saw a hot girl in your class or the mall or the high street, and you did that thing where, as she turns your way, about to catch you staring, you skillfully turn just in time to not lock eyes, watching in your peripheral for the instant she looks away so you can go back to staring again? You did it because you were shy, lacked confidence, and didn’t like your chances. In 2023—at least in the West—you have to do it lest you get #metoo’ed or shouted at by random nearby Karens. Well friends, in Thailand you don’t have to do that. Because when you’re staring at a girl, and she turns and catches you, she’s not pissed off. Rather, she’s actually flattered that you’re interested and–get this—reciprocally interested, purely as a result of your interest. And while it’s true that once in a while it backfires in public, it almost never goes wrong in the gogo. I bring it up because on Sunday in both K1 and K2, I laid eyes on a handful of new hella-hotties. And each time they caught me staring, I just stared harder, smiling amiably, throwing in a wink here and there, and even a raised eyebrow, to the blushing edification of each and every one of them.
At midweek I was out again, after my harem girl departed and I realized there was no water in the fridge—again. I grabbed some tangmo from the Patpong food court and headed back to K1. I also had some spring rolls delivered from Derby King (who incidentally installed a huge TV to show the nightly football match for the many Thais working Soi 1, who now gather in droves outside to cheer on their team). Once inside, I discovered that, if you soak a chunk of watermelon in your vodka, it improves the flavor of both. Swinging through the 3 Kings is a pleasure lately, thanks to the solid teams of hotties in each. The only downside is, after half 8 it’s nearly impossible to find a seat in any of them.
Redlighting was harder than usual last week, thanks to a daily fucking storm that hit like clockwork mid-monger. Wednesday’s downpour, however, came in the late afternoon, paving the way for my harem girl to visit at 19.00, followed by a quick visit to NanaP, where I made a beeline for Twister to hang with Oil, who gnawed on chicken wings and knocked back tequila on my dime. Nat stomped around in her black leather thigh-highs like a child throwing a tantrum. I couldn’t suss out what got her bikini bottoms in such a twist but she sure looked cute with her scrunched-up nose and furrowed brow.
After that I popped in to Angelwitch to check on Joey D. He was chillin’ like a villain, presiding over a party that’s been consistently rowdy for the past two weeks. It’s partly due to the 75b happy hour deal they’ve got going. It’s the best price in all 3 RLDs. I only had one SML though, because I had to push on to Tycoon, where a few exXXXers have taken up the pole. Goddam that place has some talent. You wouldn’t know it by their social media, but I counted four perfect 10 bodies in the joint. The dollop of dripping dick cheese that takes their PR photos has an uncanny talent for making pretty girls look ugly and/or uncomfortable. You can always tell which bars he works for because the girls in the pics always look like they’re holding in a shit.
I rang in the weekend on Friday in Gaudi on Suk 23. Per usual, they were out of iberico-wrapped melon, so I got a plate of olives (180b) for a flashback to the best lunch I had whilst in Barcelona in 2009, and fried zucchini & eggplant (120b) paired with a glass of verdejo (220b). It tasted exactly like what they serve at the beach cafes of Palma. It sparked a memory of walking from the fort to the Joan Miro Museum. If memory serves, it took about three hours.
The aforementioned olives were reminiscent of a simple meal at a random food court. Yes, Spanish food is that good. Even their mall fare beats almost anything in my hometown. I also remembered that sitting one table over was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I composed a poem on a napkin and dropped it in her lap as I fled the scene, because that’s how badly broken I was back then. These days I trace dirty words on girls’ backs mid-coitus, but pre-Thailand I was inept at wooing women. I still remember the poem:
With you, the end of all my sleep
Efface the night beneath your skin
My worthy days to you, my keep
The joy is yours alone to reap.
Below the sun, my shining sin
Burns brighter still the further deep.
A risk to take, a will to win,
A face to find my future in
So sate our fate and let me win.
This life is short, so make the leap.
If you’re wondering whether cheesy shit like that ever worked, the answer is no.
From there I floated to Dollhouse on a bed of Spanish memories to find more newhotskinnies than the previous week. I regarded them with a mixture of hunger and admirations that the girls always mistake for recognition. I see them racking their brains like, “When did that guy barfine me?” I didn’t, honey. But I might be open to an arrangement if a spot in my harem opens up. One new girl immediately honed in on my stare and I knew she’d put a line out to try to reel me in. It’s ironic that in the US, all you can really do is look. But here, if that’s all you want to do, it confuses the fuck out of the girls, who fully expect a look to lead to something. But I ain’t takin’ ‘em home. I just want to watch them dance.
In Rainbow, Bee sported a crazy getup—dayglo green lingerie and matching pleather boots. We chatted about nothing for the length of a beer while other girls tried to worm in for lady drinks. I denied them all. Back on the soi, it started to drizzle so I called an audible and ducked in to Suzie Wong’s, mainly because their Facebook posted a couple photos of semi-attractive girls. There were none to be found inside, however. Everyone was what you’d call “Rubenesque.” I moved to the terrace to finish my beer, at which time the sky opened up, drenching Soi Cowboy for a good hour. A couple of tourists discreetly snapped a photo of an old man leaving the ladyboy bar with his barfine. They chuckled at the sight, and I remembered when I used to find that kind of thing out of the ordinary. But one of the many things you learn from living here is, live and let live. We all have penchants that the bulk of society would frown upon. Judge not, lest ye be judged. I smoked a cigarillo and then ducked back into Dollhouse where the only open seat was next to the rotating stage. DH was an absolute madhouse. Ping pong balls flying everywhere. Every hottie from an hour before had already been barfined.
Saturday began with a steamy walk through the post-pissdown night t’Pong for a triple K caper in reverse order (Corner, then 2, then 1) because I had to time my K1 visit to coincide with the arrival of galpal Ice, who always comes late. She’s also tardy to work (rimshot). I think the 3 King’s might be the only gogos in BKK where the skinnies outnumber the chunksters.
In between Corner and K2 I swung round to Pink Panther, where the customers consisted of me and one other local as the only farang, plus a buttload of soft Japanese. That’s my term for describing the pudgy, congenial types who’re polite to everyone, especially the girls. Contrasted with that are the yakuza types from the previous Sunday, and the young cocky cunts who treat the dancers and Westerners like animals at a petting zoo.
Kings 2 had a grand total of three farang customers including me plus an absolute platoon of softie Nipon. When I slipped through the side door into K1, every seat was taken. Ice was still inbound, and I spotted Offy onstage and Som—who’d been MIA for two weeks—sitting with a customer. That meant buying drinks for all three girls at some point. I stood by the door for five minutes, waiting for a seat. I had to step over the foot of a Japanese who’d propped his leg up on the seat in front of him. “Move your foot, fucker,” I growled, and he snapped it back like a stiletto blade. Because while the Japanese are unapologetically racist, most are weak and small, and Thailand’s a jungle full of white apes like me. In truth, I’m not a violent person. But when I drink, I lose my temper easily. In that instance, I can snap momentarily, and then feel bad about it after the damage is done.
In between rotations in K1 were crazy nude lesbian shows with five pussy-munching girls. The rest of the dancers had to find places to sit. Som, Ice, and Offy all bum-rushed me. I got everybody a soju. Ice left with a customer to wrangle up kebabs from the food court. Som stepped outside for a cigarette and I followed. She prattled on about life in Buriram, which is where she’d been the past two weeks. After bidding farewell, I skidded into Radio City where half the girls’d been barfined and the rest were cuddling with customers. A smattering of Eurodouche sat in various corners staring at their phones.
Bada Bing was a drunken clusterfuck of customers and broads in various stages of seduction. I pressed a few twenties into bikini bottoms and retreated back to the K1 terrace for a cigar and a 90b Leo draft, watching the human circus that is Soi 1 after midnight. A drunk farang stumbled out and accosted the little lady hostess. “You speak English? How to sex? How I can sex with a girl?” Jesus. Fucking Google it before you board the plane.
Speaking of Soi 1, after a month of no place for tourists to sit, they finally brought the beer garden back, so now you can grab something from the food stalls or Derby King and take a load off whilst sipping a Chang draft.
Patpong is the perfect redlight for the ‘accidental’ whoremonger. Once you enter NanaP, you can’t pretend to have a different agenda. But the Pong has lots of other attractions that seem tame. If you’re a shydick, or you want to fool yourself you’re not trawling for clunge, you can hit the Pong and pretend you just want a fruit shake or a Buddha statue, and then just happen to fall into a gogo. The 3 King’s have those pretend-punters on lock, because they can pass up K1 on principal, then balk at K2 feigning horror and clutching their pearls, and by the time they get to K Corner, they’re ready to let their freak flag fly.
Somehow I found time to barf out a couple new vodcasts on my YouTube channel last week. It’s an ongoing series I’m calling “MGThai,” in response to the MGTOW movement in the West. If you live in Thailand, you probably don’t know that Western women have become undatable. And I have some shit to say about it, hence the new series.
I’ve got a bunch of albums of photos taken inside the gogos over the past half decade. They’re for sale, along with some of my artwork 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: If you’re out on the piss, and it’s raining off and on, and the rain stops, and you get the idea that you can hop a motorbike taxi and make it to the next RLD before it starts again, rethink that idea. Chances are likely you won’t make it. The rain’ll start up again and you’ll have to pull over and wait it out, making awkward conversation with the mo’taxi driver. Instead, either stay put until the clouds clear or Grab a car.