What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. It’s been a crazy news week in my home country of the US, where a senile New World Order puppet’s fake Presidency came to an abrupt end, and his shit-brained, crazy, cackling whore of a VP has seized the nomination while the Bush-Clinton-Obama dynasty preps Hillary to be foisted in instead. At the same time, the real govt—the 3-letter agencies—are busy covering up their involvement in the attempt to assassinate the first non-Deep State candidate in the last 60 years. I watch it all passively on my phone’s screen whilst reclining on the terrace of a pub in Bangkok with a pint in one hand and a cigar in the other. It’s a great relief to have escaped from that lunatic asylum years ago. But I still feel a sense of doom, because the Thai baht is pinned to the Dollar, which as of a month ago has no value, since Saudi Arabia decided to stop trading oil in Dollars. This can only mean a world war is coming, on top of a civil war in my home country. So no matter how bad things get, it will affect us here in the great sanctuary of TLOS. Thankfully, the Thai govt has decided not to recriminalize ganja, so we have that blessed crutch on which to lean, plus the sweet, sweet booze and placid clunge of gogo dancers to sedate our anxious minds—except on Buddhist holidays.
Last Sunday was day two of a two-day no-booze, no-redlight weekend thanks to two back-to-back holy days which expats and tourists don’t observe. It makes no sense to me, when tourism preserves your whole country’s economy. Seems counterintuitive. Although by the time travelers land, having not checked a calendar first for boozeless holidays, by the time they figure out they can’t party, it’s too late. So really, why should the Thai govt give a fuck? It’s what we in the business call “a dick move.”
Despite the ban and closures, I ventured out on Sunday after a conc visit to check out the milieux and grab a burger off of G’s new burger menu. I chose the sauerkraut burger: beef patty, kraut, bacon, usual fixin’s on a pretzel bun, along with hearty, golden-delicious home fried potatoes sauteed in onions, butter, and garlic. The burger was unlike anything I’d ever tasted. Both an explosion of classic German flavors and a robust burger in its own right, I couldn’t put it down. I inhaled it in one go. On my way home I stopped in the Night Market for some ganja gummies, because even on booze-free days, you can thankfully still get stoned. Then I found a place (I won’t say where) selling beers, so I grabbed a few and took ‘em home to get wrecked.
On Monday afternoon, I hit up Mr. DIY for a new matchel (man satchel) since my old one somehow got torn whilst in Cambodia. Then I had a Drew Estate Fat Bottom Betty and a black ‘n’ Smooth at Shenanigan’s with a keto breakfast for good measure. Later on, after an evening conc visit I jammed t’Pong to see what kind of post-booze ban party would ensue. Walking up Silom Soi 3 I spotted a touchebag (tourist douchebag) leaving his hotel while staring at the Google map on his phone. I correctly surmised he was heading to the Pong. We wound up crossing the road at the same time. Then when he stopped to consult his GPS location once more, I passed him and ducked into the Market. I lost him after that, but I assume he spent two hours eating meat on a stick while working up the courage to enter a gogo, only to chicken out and return to his room. He looked like the type that would fly 8,000 miles only to drop the ball on the one-yard line.
Offy pounced on me as soon as I found a seat in K1, which wasn’t hard because it was only half full at half 9. Some of the tourists in the market seemed unsure about entering. Maybe two days of no redlight had them feeling a bit gun shy. Depending on the day, the dancers in King’s 1 are the components of a fever dream. At least, one rotation is. They’ve divided the rotas into Rubenesque women and hotskinnies. In the latter, I’ve identified four whom I’d gladly audition for a spot on my harem. At the moment, however, I’m busy reeling in four others simultaneously. One’s from one of the stairwell bars in Nana Plaza. Another is currently a hostess outside a gogo on Soi Cowboy. The other two are Pong girls. So these K1 candidates will have to wait.
New2 was also sparsely patronized. I’m not chasing anyone in the bar, but a girl there is on Seven like mango on sticky rice. I assume she knows a current or former conc whose life is/was on easy street while disporting in my bed once a week. I assume she wants a chance at that consistent cheddar. She made the hungry eyes at me from the stage, but I tipped a different girl in her bikini bottoms and bailed before my stalker could make a play.
Then I skipped over to Virgin, where the aircon had everyone shivering per usual. A new girl absentmindedly picked her nose onstage, oblivious to any onlookers. In a terminally narcissistic world, it’s nice to see a girl with such a lack of self-awareness. The barmaid brought me a Heiney without being asked. I scanned the stage for familiars and saw only two. But that was just one rota. The 2nd had four galpals. Yok came to sit for a spell. I’ve learned to turn her presence into a way to make other girls jealous. First, I slipped a hundy in her bra. Then I bounced her tits around like a pair of water balloons, all while the girls onstage watched with keen interest. Then I had to choose between a 400b glass of Bordeaux at Groovin’ High or a 220b b ruskie back at the K1 terrace. I decided to circle back to King’s. Radio City was shut due to lack of dancers returning from their holiday. On the terrace, I was accosted out of the blue by a longtime King’s girl whom I’ve passively known for years. The closest we ever got to speaking was back during the Covid lockdowns, when girls weren’t allowed to dance, and we were all relegated to tables outside on the soi. I bought her a couple drinks, because at the time I bought everyone drinks while trying to keep them afloat. On this night, she pulled me to her table and said, “I’m finally drunk enough to talk to you.” She said she’s always been too shy to approach. I accused her of lying. Then she proceeded to throw herself at me until Offy ran out to put the kibosh on her advances. She noticed I’d bought the girl a ladydrink, so she ordered one without even asking and joined us at our table. I was aghast but not surprised. The practice of gogo harlots vying for my old ass is a new sensation. I suppose it’s just my ladydrink money that they’re after, but some probably hope to be future concs. Speaking of, Noey grabbed my phone and plugged in her Line ID. Then they both went inside to dance, and I sought out the soft embrace of my bed.
On Tuesday the customer traffic was back to normal after a long boozeless weekend. I hit several Patpong establishments before slowig down in Virgin, grabbing a cocktail and planting on a stool outside with a mini Partagas. The remaining seats soon filled up with girls who are all familiar with Seven but who hold no significant place, either as a concubine or a former concubine. They all sit down and say “wadika, Seven.” I can’t tell if it’s respect or if I register as part of the furniture at this point, I’m such a fixture. But when one of them asked permission to use the toilet, I realized there was a huge rift in communication. Nobody needs my ‘OK’ to take a piss.
On Wednesday a conc I hadn’t nailed since February (a former XXX Lounge dancer) messaged to say she was coming over. I decided to punish her for staying away so long with an extra-long railing (which for me means 10 minutes) that aggravated my arthritis. I’ve found the only cure for it is tits and booze, so once she was out the door I headed Pongward, forgetting my self-pledge to avoid the redlight most nights. The Pong was packed to the gills with vanilla tourists. I had a whiskey and Partagas on the King’s 1 terrace, feeling the balm of both vices sink into my swollen joints and psyche. Four shirtless twats sauntered past. At first I thought they were Brits, but their hair was too stupid for Englishmen. They were likely German, or Polish. Then I slipped into K1 where miraculously the girls outnumbered the customers. There must’ve been a muster of 60 in that mass of asses. Then I realized why. The girls had all gone back to Isaan during the holiday weekend, then traveled back on Monday, then overslept on Tuesday. Then they all showed up for work skint on Wednesday.
New2 was similarly stacked with racks, all with that hungry, rent-money look. Lord have mercy, what an ecosystem. Punters in it are akin to lions in a habitat of baby gazelles. An enterprising monger could take down the entire phylum if he were so inclined. This old cat will settle for a few new once-a-monthers. Virgin was similarly sparsely-patronized with shit tons of girls on display. Yok came over. I’m so grateful for her now. She doesn’t ask for a drink, and only nuzzles against me in exchange for a tip. It’s a fair trade. She keeps me warm in that frigid gogo and wards off all would-be drink seekers while driving other girls crazy with envy. It’s glorious.
Friday started strangely with a 3-months-gone concubine messaging like a bolt from the blue to say she’d be stopping by to provide a BJ. I obliged. It’s amazing how, after a length of months, a monger and his conc can fall right back into naked sync like no time at all has passed. Her body fit with mine like two jigsaw puzzle pieces. She used all the familiar tricks that made her such a fierce sex partner. And that’s the real gift of a harem. Each member brings their own unique skillset. No one blows the same, or comes the same, or moans the same. Each vajay has its own feel. A monger’s harem is a veritable walk-in closet of wiener pouches.
After she bailed, the plan was to hit Soi Cowboy but my arthritis flared up again and so I only made it as far as Patpong, where two 50something farams (farang clams) sat down at the table next to mine on the K1 terrace. They had a girl with them who couldn’tve been older than six. ‘Twas some kind of matriarchal “Stella got her groove back” type of vacation. Meanwhile the beer garden was rammed. The sight of gogo dancers through the K1 doorway caused the familiar tourist traffic jam. There were no seats in the bar so I moseyed over to New2 where the stage was positively lousy with new clunge. The array of hotskinnies rivaled the flocks of the early 2010s. At one point, a bouncer pulled me aside to tell me a lower mamasan had been promoted to assistant manager. She scampered over and wai’d. I congratulated her, unsure of what else I was meant to do. Perhaps I’ll start carrying a sword around the Pong so I can dub newly-promoted staff to managementhood like the lord of the redlight manner.
Two girls in street clothes sat off to the side, filling out job applications, which is to say providing their contact info. In a gogo, there’s no interview process. It’s just “do you have a clam?” and “Are you able to sling it?” If both answers are ‘yes,’ she’s hired.
Virgin’s stage was similarly stacked from edge to edge. I saw many new faces, which is to say they were new to Virgin, but not necessarily new to the redlight. There were too many tattoos and disaffected looks for that. Yok sat down and informed me that as of yesterday the bar implemented a new policy: a 2 ladydrink minimum anytime a customer has a girl over. I can’t see how they could possibly enforce that rule, especially with regulars like me. I buy zero drinks for Yok and that will never change. And she knows that and doesn’t mind. Her goal in sitting with me was always to get out of dancing by saying “I’m sitting with my friend Seven.” That doesn’t fly anymore. At the rotation, she has to get her ass back up onstage. Many familiar and sem-familiar faces hovered around my location like crows circling carrion. Some stared seductively from the stage. This tells me that despite the large crowds in the Night Market and mobs of strolling looky-loos around the redlight, there’s not a lot of ladydrinks getting bought in the gogos. Maybe that’s the reason for the futile “two drink minimum” mandate and all the newly-found interest from girls for this old redlight rat.
Saturday was meant to be a night 2her3 I sat on the couch after my number 1 conc came to do her duty. But she had to flake, thanks to a daylong constant downpour. So I ponged. My first stop was the pharmacy for some Gaviscon chewables. It should’ve taken 10 seconds but I was in there for 15 minutes because a skinny Singaporean chick bought half the inventory. The checker had to leave to get more bags, she bought so much crap. And the whole time, neither she nor her pudgy friends acknowledged my presence. I was a nonentity to them.
The night market seethe with tourists unwavered by the rain. The k1 patrons all leave their brollies outside. The Japanese and machines tourists don’t know the Thai word for it (which is “rhom” by the way) so makes for fun exchanges with the staff, as exiting customers ask for their “umblarra” and the Thais have no idea what they’re saying.
In New2 there’s a dancer who does what I call hotness hoarding. Her body is a perfect 10. It’s astounding. And on top of that, she’s pretty. But she doesn’t want to go with customers so when she’s onstage, she refuses to face the punters and at every opportunity she hides behind the pillar in the center of the stage. It’s looney tunes. We have a kind of connection, though. Weeks ago she saw me stealing looks at her, and now whenever she notices me she watches to see if I look her way. And every time she leaves the stage she turns to me and we exchange nods.
Speaking of nods, 4 swarthy middle easterners came in and sat next to me. One guys view of the stage was completely obscured by yet another pillar, so I moved over and gestured for him to take my spot. He did so without a thank you or even a nod in my direction. I guess I can’t blame him, I mean I’m an infidel after all. In k corner a Turkish-looking dude sat with his fat wife. She sipped on a margarita. At one point, the dude called a staffer over and asked if he’d freshen her drink. No joke, she was halfway done with it and he asked the barmaid to top if off. The cheek of some of these foreign cunts.
These Days, the only Patpong gogos where you can get an open seat after 22.00 is New2 and Virgin, and both are still crowded–just not a capacity, usually. In the latter gogo I counted 6 new girls at a mere glance. Yok came over. A barmaid came to take her ladydrink order and their 2-drink minimum was put to the test. After a short exchange, the barmaid fled with no drink order. So I guess that’s the end of that.
A weird thing’s been happening in virgin lately. I’m not sure whether it’s because of Yoks attention but girls have started watching every move I make when I’m in there. Even girls who’re sat with other customers watch me instead of their customer. It’s very unnerving.
In other news, a conc audition that turned out to be a one-and-done now messages every week asking to come over again. I keep telling her no but she comes back with “I don’t have money for rent.” Well fuck, how’d you pay it before you let your legs fly up in my apartment? It’s a ploy, I know, but I fall for the guilt trip more times than not. It makes one wonder who’s being trafficked. I have to get my wang up and give you what-for because you want money? What are you, my clampimp? Anyway, it’s a good problem to have, I’m not complaining. My friends in the US have actual problems. I do not.
In more “retirement is weird” news, back when I was a wage slave I’d get home from work around 17.00 and by 19.00 I could barely stand to wait for the gogos to open. I was always the first customer in K1. Now that I lay around all day, I can barely get my ass out the door to monger before 21.00.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is Part 3 of a massive gallery of XXX Lounge photos from 2022. You can view it here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-xxx-lounge-2022-part-3/
but only if you become a Member. The price tag is $1 per month, and new content is added weekly. I’m too dumb to figure out how to link the weekly posts to a single button on my website, so I post the links on my social every Friday, and provide a summary of all posts at the end of each month. Sorry for the inconvenience.
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:
@bar_thigh
@BangkokNightli2
Thai chick-related artwork can be purchased at
https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
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: Every good whoremonger needs at least four extra bath towels. If you launder once a week like a normal straight man, you need enough towels to accommodate multiple visitors. Because girls can smell other girls on the fabric. If you have a conc over, and then simply hang dry and refold her towel, her perfume/lotion/vape smoke are all over that bad boy. This is a crazy-inducer for any girl who might use it a day or three later. Always have enough clean towels that you won’t need to reuse one with different girls. They hold grudges, like cats. Call it feline umbrage.
