What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and I’m currently trapped in the hellhole of Los Angeles. The only upside of being stuck in the dystopian nightmare that is California is, I got to squeeze in three nights of mongering in BKK beforehand. Here’s how it shook out…
On the morning, I skipped the Ptown bus station and caught a ride from the kiosk next to Little Brother’s restaurant on South Pattaya Road. 160b, no waiting, and no goddam tourists. A Thai dude got on, sat behind me, and procedure to cough for the entire journey. “Oh great,” I thought, “it’s gonna be Christmas with the flu.” Five minutes in, a hakalaka opened a video on his phone at full volume. Not to be outdone, the driver sparked up the speaker on his phone and had an uproarious conversation for half the ride. It wasn’t a quick journey. I got to see parts of Chonburi I’d never seen before.
It took 3 hours to get to Bang Na. I was so eager to get off the bus and on the Skytrain that I forgot a bag of t-shirts I’d brought along to wear while in BKK. I also left my phone charger in Ptown so stop 1 was MBK for more shirts and a goddam cord. The latter set me back 900 plus 400 for the former. By then, I had no interest in squeezing back on the Skytrain so I got a tuktuk for 300. Not a great start to this Bangkok sex odyssey.
Two things I miss about Bangkok living in Ptown are tall buildings and trees. BK is a concrete jungle—like New York City with better weather and fewer cunts. The concrete and steel have their own anesthetic. And green leaves and shade are sadly absent in most of Pattaya.
Each time I visit the Big Mango, I stay within a block of my old condo. This is because 1—my concubines can use the same old BTS exit and 2—it’s close to Patpong. Oldconc number 2 came over around 20.00 and let me fumble around with her hot naked body for half an hour. Then I jetted t’Pong and straight into King’s Castle 1. The lineup was mostly the same, with some new thoroughbreds mixed in for a hot aesthetic. It was wais all around first, then a seat with a shitty view. A handful of veterans acted shocked to see Seven and asked where I’d been. I responded by slapping their asses. King’s 3 was empty of customers. The barmaids said “welcome back,” and I watched a rotation of chunkers. K3 functions as an overflow for when K1 gets too full. As long as there are seats, dudes don’t bother going next door. And who can blame them with that stellar set of slags? I stayed in K3 for the rotation because I wanted to see if there were skinnies on the roster. They had two. One was a smoke show whom I tried and failed to conc up before moving to Ptown. She didn’t recognize me at first but once the lightbulb lit up in her tiny brain, she jumped off stage to come over and ask what happened to me. I told her I died and resurrected. She didn’t understand. Speaking of, back in K 1 I had to listen a loser American trying to impress a chick. “I’m in the tech industry.” Eh? “Tech industry.” Uh? “Teccchhhh innnnnndustryyyy.” Dude, even if she could understand you she wouldn’t care.
K2, which I learned on my last visit only opens on the weekends, was in full swing and crowded. I saw no familiars but three gals shouted my name at separate times. I think I might be going senile. My capacity to remember redlight clunge is really slipping. The takeaway though is, K2 has some rock-solid hotties working there, and when its closed during the week, they move over to K3. King’s Corner was the poontang equivalent of the Miracle on Ice from the 1980s—a classic spectacle. There was so much hot clunge in there, my head spun. The veterans paid their respects while a couple gals who I didn’t know whispered to the vets about me, pointing and asking something while the girls who knew me nodded in unison. The young bloods outnumbered the old guard, that’s for sure. And it was true of all the other gogos, as well. You go away for three weeks and come back to a whole new line-up of gash, with just enough holdovers to make a man feel at home.
Then I slid into Virgin where again it was a 50-50 mix of old and new. The mamasan asked where I’d been. I explained and she said, “Well, welcome back to your real home.” And it’s true. Patpong will always be my home.
Two drunk farang were up at the bar arguing about their bill. Both wore baseball caps. One sported a wife beater and basketball shorts. The other a Billabong t-shirt and Bermudas. I pegged them as Americans. A Thai server was trying to help. Once they paid, security escorted them out, and then it made sense. They tried to skip out on the bin, the cunts.
As I made my way out the Pong, the dude who used to work at kiss bar and now mans the door at radio city grabbed me and dragged me inside. I don’t like spending money in there because the fucking frogs own it, but so many Thai staffers have known me for years. I got roped into buying drinks for 3 of them. The rota onstage had three 10s. I asked when Bada Bing would finish renovations. They said there’s no date in sight to reopen. So ironically, when they kicked out the veterans and forced them to move to K Corner, they did ’em a favor.
Sunday oldconc number 3 came over for a longtimessake shag. Then I went to Shenanigan’s for a nostalgia roast, then a nap. At 20.00 I Bolted to cowboy and tried first to see Crazy House, but they stopped me at the door and pointed to a sign listing all the things you can’t take inside. I only glanced at it, but remembering they hassled me once over my earbuds, so I just turned and left. Maybe that’s not what they were saying, but I can’t tolerate even the appearance of an ass ache. Then it was straight to Dollhouse. There were only four onstage—two chunks and two 9s. It must’ve been 50 degrees Fahrenheit in DH. The barmaid pointed at the aircon vents as if to say, “I know, right?” The DJ spun Queen, then Survivor, then Baltimora, Pet Shop Boys, Erasure, Inxs, and motherfuckin‘ Rick Astley. I’d love to find a venue in Ptown that plays tunes like that. Rota two had one 10 but she was in her mid30s, and one 8. Then I hit Long Gun, not to watch the naked whales onstage but to gaze at the supercute barmaid that works there. The DJ pumped the Chili Peppers, Skynyrd, Pink Floyd, Men at Work, and Tina Turner. Tilac had one chubby rota and one medium sized rota—nobody I’d call a hotskinny, or even just skinny. The beer was room temp. When a 40 year old dancer tried to sit with me, I got the eff outta there.
Then I popped into Hot Lips, Cowboy’s newest gogo, in the location where Stumble Inn used to be. I’d hoped to say hi to my buddy, who manages the joint, but it was his day off. It’s a nice-looking gogo and there’s a plethora of petite princesses, plus a handful of robust gals as well. Happy Hour is 120b beers and well drinks till 21.30. Three weird greasy farang (not American, not English) sat next to me and ordered waters. A mamasan brought over a girl who, evidently, one of them bought drinks for on a previous night. The dude said, “NO! Not todayyy.” That’s what we called a one-week millionaire on day 7 of his pretend-to-be-rich holiday.
Soi 4 around Nana was jammed with people. The Plaza, not so much, but it was busier than Cowboy, and as the night wore on, got a lot busier. The security lady shouted at me for not opening all compartments of my mansatchel. They’re a lot tougher than the Ptown guards. I looked in on Joey D in Angelwitch. He’d just got back from a drumming gig. Dude goes from playing live music to managing a gogo. That’s a life less ordinary. After one vodka I slid into Twister knowing there’d be a confrontation with an old conc, but I wanted to buy a drink for JJ, former Kiss Bar dancer and for a brief moment, a harem girl. JJ wasn’t there, but the old concubine spotted me 5 seconds after I walked in. Luckily, she’d already been barfined, and departed with a crusty old farang minutes later. Rota 1 had two 8s. Red Dragon was crawesome (short for crazy awesome) with hot clunge everywhere I looked. And I got the hungry eye from no less than four hotskinnies. If I lived in BKK, I’d o to red dragon every night and rebuild a harem from scratch made up of only those hussies. I counted seven 10s in just one rotation. That’s just fuckdiculous.
I said hello to Candyman at Lollipop. Their terrace is a perfect spot to watch tourists acting like idiots. It’s some Thai security guard’s job to shine a laser pointer on every fucktard who tries to take a photo. It’s another guard’s job to rock up and make them delete the photo. And this goes on all night long. Why in the fuck Nana is so uptight about photos is a head-scratcher. People’s Instagram pics would only serve as free advertising. Someone in the decision-making office has his head up his butt. Lollipop has a handful of smoke shows, and when they take the stage, it’s a sight to band. But once my beer was empty, it was time for bed.
These days I find Nana to be weirdly nostalgic, despite the major changes over the years. It’s always good to retrek over old redlight stomping grounds. Clunge memories are the best kind of memory. Everywhere I went, various barmaids said “Not see you long time.” Mind you, it’s been more than a year since most of these old ladies laid eyes on me, what with Bob James aka Bob the Knob aka Dave the Rave’s fake ban on me, so to remember my face after all that time is a feat.
Monday was my last night before flying, so after entertaining two concs, one at noon and one at 20.00 with the help of a kamagra, I felt I had to Pong one last time. The night market was an insane asylum. I hadn’t seen that much human refuse there since the 20teens. K1 had two 10s and two 9s in the first rota, and two 8s in the 2nd, while tons of hot clunge queued up to clock in. K3 was somewhat disappointing since I had it on good authority that during the week, the gash from K2 came and danced there. I only spotted three worthy contenders in the first rotation, and what I can only describe as an 11 out of 10 in the second. She was the most incredible sex goddess I’ve ever seen. Tiny waist, perfect ass, real tits, a back tattoo, thigh gaps, zero fat. She was a vision of every dark fantasy I’d ever conjured in my depraved imagination. Every dude in the joint was hypnotized by her. She must get fucked 9 ways to Sunday. She danced for a full 30 seconds before getting barfined by a weak-chinned 60something American.
King’s Corner had several 9s and 10s like it was no big deal. To me, it’s a small resurgence of the kind of hotbody youngsters that were so common in the early 20teens. The only difference is, now they dance alongside a contingent of orcas that weren’t there a decade ago. In 2010, a typical rota would be 14 superhotties and one fat chick. From 2020 or so until now, it was the opposite. But seeing this new injection of smoke shows us an encouraging sign. I don’t know where they came from or how they avoided the pitfalls that created so many chunkers. I just thank God for them. Thank you, God. They’re all out of my price range now, but thank you all the same.
There’s a small but growing trend in the King’s bars of redlight goth girls. They only wear black lingerie. They have spider tattoos, spectacles, white skin, black hair, black pleather boots, and fishnets. It’s quite a scene. The more of them that show up, the more in love I fall…enough to possibly pull the trigger on a barfine one of these days. Virgin had, I kid you not, three 10s in a rota. I’m not exaggerating these numbers. I honestly don’t know where all the hotness came from. If I had to theorize, it’s the graduating high school last of 2024. Maybe there was something in the water in Isaan. For the sake of my Thai friend who works the door at Radio City, even though I revile the frogs, I let him pull me in for a drink. I counted three 9s and two 8s between both rotas.
Patpong has a slew of new regulars—basically me when I arrived on the scene 16 years ago. They exchange wais with staff and have their favorite girls to sit with. I recline in their midst as a mostly inconspicuous interloper. The only sign of my redlight royalty is the subdued reverence of longtime staff and older dancers. They lean over and whisper to the new girls, “That’s Seven. Yeah, the one you heard about.” Tales of my gravy train are the stuff of legend. The new locals don’t notice, but every gal’s eyes are on me. Every gash wants my attention. A farang came in and sat next to me. It was the old American who’d tried to barfine the 11 of 10 from King’s 3. I guess she was too expensive.
All told, it was a nice BK visit. I squeezed in four concs and ran through the redlights. The overall experience of Cowboy these days is one of gut-wrenching boredom. Patpong isn’t much better. The events of any given night in Ptown are significantly more fun. That’s the truth of the matter. I actually found myself missing Soi 6 and Buakhao whilst sitting in Bangkok gogos.
I also noticed that BK’s current high season isn’t as intense as Pattaya’s. There’s a lot more going on in Ptown, and considerably more tourists. Nana is fun, and busy, and clearly winning the redlight battle in Bangkok, not because they’re doing anything great or innovative, but because Cowboy and Patpong have backslid so freaking far.
For any old Members who miss my photo albums, or for anyone wanting an eyeful of redlight content, 10 years’ worth of redlight photos and videos are accessible with a $16 one-time payment for lifetime access. Click on the “Members Only Content” link at the top of the homepage and use the PayPal button. There you’ll find thousands of photos and dozens of videos of the redlight flavor for your visual enjoyment. To help your ease of access, here’s a link to all the MO Galleries from 2024: https://bangkokseven.com/for-members-only-all-of-2024s-galleries/
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 and the redlight scene 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 for under $10 US apiece.
And until next time fellow beach 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: From one whoremonger to another, it might be time to admit that the price of gash in Thailand is permanently and irrevocably…UP. 3,000 for shorttime in BK is apparently “reasonable” in 2026, while a few moron mamasans (moramasans for short, copyright BKK7) on Soi 6 are seeing how ridiculous they can get. I recently got a text from Captain Hornbag, whose friend told him Baba Bar wants 3k plus 20 ladydrinks for a total of around 5k before the chick even quotes her fee. Laughable, yes, but what’s a monger to do when the people running the show are greedy shitheads?
