Hey there fellow mongers, how’s your redlighting these days? Tired of the frigging asshole tourists yet? Well settle in, because it’s only going to get worse over the next month.
Although I’ve only just entered middle age, it’s proving to be an adventure already, with all kinds of fun new experiences, mostly dick-and-butthole-related. For example, three minutes into banging one of my harem last week, I had the sudden urge to stop and take a nap, and a common occurrence is taking a dump, finishing up, getting my ducks in a row and one foot out the bathroom when suddenly I need to take another dump. I call it ‘deja-poo.’
Sundays are typically slow in the Pong, as illustrated by me being the only customer in K2 at 20.30. And since there were only 12 girls onstage, I put 20b into each of their bras as a good-luck gesture for the evening’s outcome. K Corner was also quiet, despite having 40 girls in two rotations. I’ve no idea how things go in the later hours of a Sunday, since I have to be up at the crack for work on Monday. It’s another factor pushing me toward retirement. My dream is to resettle in Ptown to live out my remaining years daydrinking on the Beach Road, although more than likely, I’ll expire in a Thai prison for the crime of beating a certain Bangkok bar photographer and human hemorrhoid to death. And no, I’m not talking about my pal Jack Nites.
In Virgin, another pack of Patpong returners graced the stage. The number of hardbodies working there now is impressive. One of my favorite ex-Strip girls made come-hither looks from the pole. An exXXXer sat and chatted for a spell, getting her sugar-vanilla perfume all over me and sending me home with that heavenly scent in my nose. It gave me the spins more than the booze did.
Midweek I was onPong again due to boredom. My harem girl came over for some afternoon delight and then as the sun went down, simulating the twilight of my life and the inevitable cold dark veil of death, I raged against the dying of the light by hitting the gogos. But it’s November, and Thailand doesn’t turn the clocks back, so when I ventured into the night, ‘twas only 19.00. The bars weren’t open yet. So, I strolled through the night market like a normie, except every vendor stopped to wai me as I passed. I’m not the king of Patpong. I’m not even a prince. Maybe a duke, or more likely, a baron. Baron Seven von Pong. My coat of arms would have a lion grabbing a pair of fake tits. Instead of a helmet, there’d be a…well, I’ll let you use your imagination, and instead of a shield it’d be a great big fanny (the British meaning, not the American one).
Thursday was Thanksgiving—an American holiday characterized by gluttonous face-feeding. Typically I spend it at the Westin Grande Sukhumvit’s Seasonal Tastes buffet, but this year I saw a Facebook ad for the Grand Hyatt Erawan’s and so tried them out for a change of pace. I’ve posted a review on my Substack (link below). Afterward, I sped over to Patpong for a Cuban cigar and black Russian outside K1. At the next table over, a gay American was trying to impress his Thai companion. It was either a first date or a post-short-time conversation, and the whole thing was very awkward. And a weird place to have it to boot. The Yank was trying to impress in the way that so many Yanks do—by bragging about his wealth. “I’ll take you to a mountain in America. Have you heard of Dolly Parton? She’s from there. We can drink moonshine. Do you like cheesecake?’ I’m not kidding, that’s how bizarre it was. To the Thai guy, the whole speech must’ve sounded like “Blah blah blah blah blah…” “China has no time zones. I went to Istanbul.” Jesus, Buddha, and Krishna is this how regular people talk? “We should exchange numbers. I need a new travel buddy.” What the fuck is a travel buddy? You mean you need another person to go places with? Why? You can’t go by yourself? Are you a fucking child? Americans are just awful, and I can say that because I’m American. “Since I sold my house, I don’t have to worry about money.” Bloody hell. To be fair, it’s not just Americans. I used to work with an English bloke who was both a landlord and a communist. I know, right? The mental gymnastics he had to do to justify that. He would boast about his wealth, and in the same conversation tout the healthcare system in Cuba. I guess the takeaway is, Americans don’t hold the patent on mental retardation. Everyone’s fucking retarded.
Virgin’s stage continues to be awesome, with fantalent (fantastic talent) from the four corners of Thailand. The chickie who looks like my first and only Thai girlfriend at 18 is an absolute vision. But like my muse in Dollhouse, I just want to watch her dance. No harem slot, no drinks or conversation. Just watching her from afar is enough.
Two American douche-canoes sat down to my left. One wore sunglasses in the gogo—a classic douche move—the other sported a trucker hat. They pretended to be cool for 30 minutes, and then got the three ugliest girls in the bar over for a drink. That’s pretty common with Western dudes. They seem to instinctively feel they don’t deserve a 10, so they get with 6s. I support it 100%.
On Friday I went straight t’Pong because Jack Nites messaged to say he was there. I started out at Derby King against my better judgment. They had 20 tables of customers and the same three servers as low season. They and the cooks were out of their minds, and the tourists were pissed-off. I only had myself to blame for the 30-minute wait for a plate of pad thai. I waited patiently—that is, until a farang in a fishing hat who sat down after me got his food before me. A Japanese dude waved frantically at a waiter, who ignored him. Three hideous Aussie clams sat down at the table next to mine, yammering about taxis, shut shops, and wasting money in Bangkok. God almighty, the stupid things women talk about. Most of my high school friends back in L.A. are married with kids. The amount of inane babble they must endure on a daily basis while also not getting laid is unfathomable for a consummate bachelor like me. If that was my life, I’d kill myself. The only thing my harem talks to me about is when I last ate, do I want them to clean my apartment, and when can they see me again.
If DK was a restaurant in The States, and went from no customers to no empty tables, the staff would be ecstatic. But the Thai servers were angry. One waitress actively tried to not do her job. They were completely overwhelmed. At one point, I heard conversations in English, Japanese, Italian, and Farsi. It’s becoming apparent that Thailand is not prepared for this high season’s numbers. And it’s only the first month. And despite having the entire library of human existence in one’s pocket, the tourists get dumber every year. In King’s 2, an idiot American yapped at a gogo dancer about his affluence. She didn’t understand a word. The Aussie clunge in DK asked questions like “Can I substitute a spring roll for that?” and “Does it have gluten?” Dunderheads.
Every night, a crazy homeless Thai dude shows up outside K1 with a toy gun he modified into a toy rifle by duct taping PVC pipe to it, and kneels on the street in a sniper position, aiming his toy r at the gogo dancers on stage. Tourists stop to gawk and snap pics. The door staff endure him for about 10 minutes and then send him packing. He makes no money from it. The only thing driving him must be that he’s not playing with a full deck.
King’s Corner had a load of new fanny—glamorous, statuesque fanny. Jack snapped pics of the newbies while I gently massaged a tit or two. Virgin continues to destroy. Every night, they host a slew of new girls of both the sultry and come-hither variety. Friday was schoolgirl cosplay night. Several girls asked Seven to take their photo. I’ve included them in this week’s YouTube slideshow companion (link below). The latest gogo bar hit is a song called “Zoom” by Jessi and it goes ‘I see you, lookin’ at my p.i.c…” my fave dancer at Virgin sings along, “I see you, boo bee boo bah bee bah beeeee.” It’s friggin’ adorable.
Speaking of Virgin, in the men’s loo there’s decorative molding left over from when the bar was called Glamour. It simultaneously reminds me of when I took one of my American girlfriends to the Getty Museum in Los Angeles, and the Houdini house, which is a mansion in the Hollywood Hills that used to belong to Harry Houdini. It’s also the location for the recording of Red Hot Chili Peppers’ album “Blood Sugar Sex Magic.” When I was in college, my friends and I would sneak in there to drink 40s of malt liquor and look for Houdini’s ghost. Thanks to the flirtations of Virgin’s vixens, my Pong session descended into a hedonistic fever dream, and so I didn’t make it out to Nana or Cowboy.
On Saturday my harem girl showed up late and I was too tired to go out. But I went out anyway, because I’ll rest when I’m goddam dead. A quick mo’taxi ride t’Nana got me a seat in Twister by 20.30. At first glance stageward, I spotted a familiar femme. It turns out she’s a former Kiss Bar (Patpong) and a one-time visitor to my bedroom. She didn’t earn a spot in the harem because, despite having a near-perfect body, that body performed like a corpse in the sack. Shame. I asked her why she didn’t go to Virgin. She said she never heard of it.
After a couple cocktails with some exXXXers, my bill came and it was over 900b. On inspection, I was charged for an extra SML. Some expats and most tourists would assume it was deliberate. But I know it was just a keystroke error, because this is Twister we’re talking about. It’s the joint that tracked down my wallet when I left it in a booth. They fixed the bill immediately, no questions asked. When it comes to Thais, never attribute bad behavior when poor job performance is a possible explanation. It’s always going to be the latter.
Geisha was busy on one side of the bar. Over near the loo is where the bubble bath is located. It’s full of soapy naked girls, so the customers all collect around it like iron to a magnet. I sat solitary on the opposite side, where a dozen cosplay-clad girls shook their moneymakers to C+C Music Factory. A couple of spring chickens in sexy nurse outfits stirred my aging loins. God on Geisha for keeping their beer price to 170b. Inexplicably, Twister’s is 160. And it’s the same owner, so that’s not a diss. And since I was trying to drink my way out of a Kamagra headache, I appreciated the help.
In Angelwitch (G’n’R, Def Leppard, Whitesnake, Poison), a one-week millionaire threw wads of 20s at the stage. The girls went crazy, and two of ‘em bumped heads going after the same bill. Call me crazy, but 20 baht ain’t worth a bleeding cranium.
From there, I completely forgot to go to Cowboy, and per habit jumped a mo’taxi t’Pong, and was surprised to see only 10 girls on Virgin’s stage. But then I noticed half a dozen sitting with customers, plus the whole of the 2nd rotation lounging languidly outside. And there’s a certain vibe in a bar where there were a lot of barfines. The remaining chicks are disgruntled, insecure at not being chosen, and privately pitypartying for themselves. But everything changed when the next rotation took the stage and the party atmo came raging back. Plus, there were newhotties again, for the 14th night running. The seX-factor in that bar is shocking.
Not unlike a zoologist who goes into the wild to observe beasts in their natural habitats, I sit outside King’s Caste 1 on a regular basis, watching the tourists. According to my informal analysis, I guestimate that at least 90% of the global population are useless, brain-dead douchebags. It’s a fucking pandemic. Worse than Covid is the worldwide spread of loser douchebaggery. It’s not as easy to discern among Chinese and Japanese clusters because they’re inherently dorky. Apart from groups like the yakuza, the whole of the continent is 100% nerd. But the white tourists have dead giveaways. A castrated eunuch is more manly than most Western dudes, and the women are just pigs in dresses. I’d puke in my mouth if not for the soothing balm of Thai gogo dancers and their slim, delicate feminosity (feminine generosity). And as an addendum, if you’re a white dude and you wear a necklace, you’re a vagina, full stop.
When there are lots of sex tourists in the redlights, something happens that I call ‘feint-evoked clunge-claiming.’ I’ll swing into a redlight, and a girl will call my name from the stage, ask to have her photo taken, hit me up for a tip, give a hug or even come down to chat, and within a minute or so, a mamasan will come over and drag her off to a customer who bought her a drink from a distance. What that is is, some douchebag had his eye on her before I came in, and when she showered me with attention, he panicked and threw out a drink order, preemptively claiming her before I could steal her away. But the joke’s on him, because I’m never ever interested in those chicks. It happened half a dozen times last week. The desperation of incel-tourists is palpable. You can smell it in the air.
Last week, two extraordinary events took place in my life that are equally rare, conflicting, and at the same time a kind of kismet. I added a new harem girl while also getting rid of one that’d been with me for nine years. Usually the long-termers leave on their own. I’ve learned to hold on loosely and let ‘em return to the wild when they wish. My all-time three faves all went their own way. But some hang on too long. She’s the second of four former Electric Blue dancers who joined Seven’s team in 2014. The first popped out a kid and moved to Rayong just before the scamdemic and the third and fourth are still with me. The lady in question had to hit the bricks for two reasons. Believe it or not, age wasn’t a factor, but it did make it easier to say goodbye. First, the sex had become stale. Much like how I imagine what happens in the lives of married couples, we fell into a rut. After nearly a decade, the spark had faded. And second, she got lazy with her BJ technique. I can’t abide that. Within days, however, a new girl inserted herself into my life by way of being superhot and amiable. And I’ll say, my charm did contribute to a small degree. She’s a hostess at a Bangkok gogo, and by that I mean, she stands outside and tries to coax customers through the door. She’s not on the pole (yet) and from our conversations, seems uninitiated to the world of farang wang. I convinced her to let me teach her in the ways of bedroom Olympics and then pulled the move that always works: I gave her my Line, told her to reach out anytime she wants a couple grand in spending cash, and then ignored her for a few days. In less than 72 hours, she messaged to say she was coming over and voila! she’s in the rota. For someone who doesn’t like to let harem girls go, or take on newbies, the fact that both happened in the space of a few days is amazing–at least to me.
In other news, Nuchy and Joy were on vacation last week. They sent me some pics of them lounging by the pool. I’ve included them in this week’s YouTube slideshow companion.
If you haven’t yet, check out my MGThai video series on my YouTube channel. It’s strictly mediocre content from a Thai expat perspective.
Artwork and photo albums from inside the gogos are available for digital download at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart at superlow prices.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Check back next Sunday for another summary of this redlight life. 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/X @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, and until next time fellow BK Bukowskis and Bathshebas, 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: Those ultra-thin elephant print pants sold in all the night markets and MBK are for women and Japanese men exclusively. If you’re a Western male, do not wear these in public. Sure, they’re comfortable. But so is a vagina, three weeks out of the month.
