Happy Sunday, reader. That is, if you’re reading this at time of posting. It’s one of those Buddhist dry days, so hopefully you thought ahead and stocked your fridge with brewskies. If not, then allow this post to intoxicate you with redlight anecdotes.
If you haven’t been to the gogos lately—or the malls or the skytrain station—or have been but you’re blind, let me tell you that high season has begun. Everywhere you turn, there’s a gang of stupid cunts in backpacks and Bermuda shorts trying to work up the courage to monger. I endured them with tenuous patience, wondering how I’m going to make it all the way to Songkran with these knuckle-draggers cramming themselves into the bars. At any rate, here’s how my redlight week shook out…
On Sunday, after she begged me to make time for her, my harem girl got rained-out, so I jetted t’Pong to pick up some shit from the pharmacy and slip through a coupla gogos. Pink Panther currently has a really nice set of hotskinnies. A few old familiars are there–veterans from various other venue, eg the old Glamour, Black Pagoda, XXX Lounge, and Radio City. I got the feeling they were back from a long hiatus and warming up to take the stage at the new bar—called Virgin and run by Peng, former Bada Bing stalwart—opening next month in the spot where Glamour used to be. For now, they comprise five 9s and two 9.5s in the Panther.
King’s Corner had one whole rotation either barfined or sitting with customers when I walked in. I got the 2nd to last seat. The girls all quizzed me about the other gogos—which one had the most customers on what days. That entrepreneurial spirit lives large in the dancer community. After that, I sat with Som outside King’s 1, smoked a couple cigarillos and watched the human zoo passing through the Night Market. The Muslim women are back post-scamdemic. They walk in slow herds through the redlight, sticking out like sore thumbs amidst the sexy, bare-skinned dancers. It’s baffling that they come to Patpong in the first place. If you ask me, it smacks of invasion. There was one lady dressed head to toe in black, with only the eye slits to prove there was a human underneath. Her husband, who was dressed in normal Western clothes, walked ahead of her. Perhaps she wasn’t there by choice. Perhaps her husband wanted to get an eyeful of Bangkok redlight, and she was just along for the ride. I’ve no idea. Nothing about their lifestyle makes sense to me. An intriguing juxtaposition was the moment when the burqa-clad lass had to push past a Thai freelancer (a new addition to Patpong, and an indicator of either harder times or new opportunities) who hung around the top of Soi 1 at the entrance to the Night Market. Like a clash of cultures or a mashup of multiverses, these polar opposites posed as a human yin-yang. ‘Twould’ve been a humorous sight, if not for the increasing threat of a global holy war.
Did this monger Pong on Tuesday? Yes, but I had a good reason. First, my harem girl needed cash, so I had to schlep to the ATM. Second, that crazy Silom vegetarian ceremony was back on after a 3-year Covid suspension, and I got the stupid idea to snap a couple pics (see this week’s YouTube slideshow, link below). The streets were so crowded, I got stuck at the Mahanakhon Building and couldn’t get out for like an hour. By then, I just wanted a cocktail and so mo’taxi’d t’Pong. King’s Castle was a veritable Japanese bachelorfest. K2 was packed by 21.00. K Corner had the most hotties and fewest customers, go figure. Pink Panther was rife with gorgeous ladies. A very hot friend of a former harem girl in PP has taken to usurping my time whenever we’re both there on the same night. Which I don’t mind, because she’s fun to manhandle and so, so easy on the eyes. Her name’s Rose, and her English is quite good. She’s slim, with caramel-colored skin, tiny titties, and a wide, bright smile. I hung with her for the length of two cocktails before heading home.
On Thursday I was onPong by 19.00. Derby King was the busiest I’ve ever seen it, with large groups of geriatrics, families with multiple offspring, hippie couples in those thin elephant print pants. Even with double the kitchen staff and five servers (normally there’s one), the place was in a state of chaos. Cooking my gai medmamuang took half an hour. The days of getting a Thai meal in five minutes won’t return until the start of low season 2024. It’s official—the hordes have invaded. And Derby King’s mobs weren’t the only proof. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
When I arrived, I wai’d the staff, and it caught the eye of the two teen siblings in the family at the table next to mine. The boy immediately began imitating what he saw, to practice his technique. I wanted to tell him he didn’t need to wai wait staff, and the only reason I did is because they’ve cared for me for years. Instead, I told the waitress to bring my food to King’s 1 when it’s ready. The ruckus caught the attention of the boy’s pubescent sister, who watched me with fascination as I chatted up the staff in Thai and paid the check. I’m sure she just found the whole exchange interesting, what with an old farang babbling away in Thai with the Thais, but that didn’t give me comfort. I don’t like farang. I despise female farang, and I find kids revolting. I like kids like Superman likes a kryptonite enema. It’s one inconvenience unique to Patpong: children in the redlight. From toddlers to teens. I hate it.
Doing an early 3 Kings run is nice, especially since the tourist floodgates are now open. The earlier you go, the less of a crush of people. Later in the night, all 3 joints go bonkers, with hedonistic nude and lesbian shows that drive the mobs of Japanese customers into a shuddering frenzy. By 20.00 K1 had two rotations of 20. I counted four new hotskinnies. K2 has four as well, with two rotations of 10, so the hot concentration (hotcentration for short, copyright BKK70 is greater there, by simple math. A dude sat down and ordered a non-alcoholic drink. When it arrived, he bickered with the barmaid over the price claiming something about the sign outside, reminding me of Thailand rule number 12: If all you can afford is the plane ticket, don’t come. After settling on the price, he pulled out his phone and aimed the camera at the stage. He was quickly shut down by the staff. For shits and giggles, I pulled a girl onto my lap and took a photo of her back tattoo—which the staff of course allowed, because Seven can do what he wants in the Pong.
On Friday I was back in the NanaP beer garden for a Tiger pint and a plate of Stumble Inn fish’n’chips, which was just lovely. Crispy and savory outside, light and fluffy inside. I tried to only eat a few chips, but those carbs are hard to resist. This portly pernician (pernicious technician) has to watch his waistline. I’m American, and so I didn’t eat the peas. Then I went straight to Angelwitch to hang with Joey D and hear some rock and roll. Who plays Talking Heads in the gogo? The AW DJ, that’s who. He followed it with The Knack, then Dire Straits’ “Sultans of Swing,” then Springsteen. I finished my beer on the terrace, watching the unwashed mish-masses milling around the Plaza. ‘Twas more crowded than I’d seen in years. Still sparse compared to current Patpong crowds, but it’s a clear indication of the high-season inundation. There were representatives of every corner of the Earth all rubbing elbows in a menagerie of humanity. I was glad to be above it all.
From there I popped into Twister, but my galpals all had customers so I bailed to hang with Beer and Gift for the length of one vodka-soda before mo’taxiing to Patpong. There were no open seats in K1 or K2 so I slid into the Corner just as the lesbian show began. Confidentially, I’m not into it. There’s no need to get that perverse in public. Call me old-fashioned. The hundred other gogo dancers—all decked-out in black lingerie—were a spectacle, though.
Then I doubled-back to K2 for the only open seat, sensing the rise in tourist traffic like a swimmer on the edge of a tsunami. We aren’t at the apex yet, but the rapid swell is a little bit terrifying.
There are so many hotties in K2 now, it rivals the prescamdemic days. I counted seven perfect 10s in a single rotation. In K1, Som dragged me outside so she could smoke a cigarette. Some poor Asian dude who wanted to buy her a drink came out and stood next to us, waiting for me to finish with her. But she preferred my company despite my gentle torture of grabbing her tits, and sticking my finger in her nose (see this week’s YouTube slideshow), so the dude was shit out of luck.
A couple of the old XXX Lounge barmaids operate the Chang draft station in the beer garden. I feel bad not buying from them but I only drink Chang when there’s no other option.
On Saturday, I meant to hit Cowboy but thanks to a late-arriving harem girl, I had to settle for the Pong again. The girl in question Lined me earlier in the day and said, “Seven I will be late. Please wait for me. I have to go to my friend’s funeral first.” Fucking hell, that’s what I call commitment. My last farang girlfriend would cancel sex for a hang nail. This Thai girl bid farewell to a friend and then came straight to me for a BJ. And she was no less enthusiastic. I guess when you’re 19, death and BJs aren’t much of a divergence.
In King’s 1, every seat was filled at 21.30, plus every stool around the stage, plus half a dozen dudes standing. It was ridiculous. K2 was nearly-full. A bunch of young Americans were making out with girls. A newskinny with a massive backtatt and huge fake tits caught my eye, but Offy spotted me and pounced. She’s an accidental cockblock but she’s sweet. Eventually, I ended up outside K1 again with Som and her friend. They coaxed me into buying them mama noodles and nibbled at them whilst I watched tourists trying to sneak photos of the K1 stage through the doorway. They always use the same tactic–pretending to be on a video call with someone, talking aloud, while aiming their phone at the door. It happens 50 times a night.
There were no seats in King’s Corner, and it’s no wonder. There are so many hot girls in there now, it’s impossible to keep track of them all. Of Bangkok’s three redlights, Patpong still has the hottie quotient on lock, thanks to the 3 King’s plus a small contingent in Pink Panther. Nana and Cowboy can’t compete.
In other news, the biggest shit stain in the Bangkok nightlife scene is the insufferable cunt who runs Digital-A-Gogo, a substandard wannabe one-man dog and one-trick pony show trying and failing to make a splash. Currently, he runs the media for several gogos—not coincidentally, they all suck. Technically speaking, his photos are awesome. They’re clear, colorful, brilliantly-lit, and painstakingly edited. Unfortunately for him and his clients, that’s as far as his talent goes. He’s incapable of taking a good photo, mainly because he’s blind as a bat, but also because he has no eye for aesthetics. He has no creative gift. It’s also because his subjects—the gogo dancers—loathe him, and it shows through in the photos. Now, you might be thinking, if that’s the case, then how did he get hired by so many bars? The answer is by 1—lying to them about his social media reach (my content, that I do for fun and barely give any thought to, destroys his in terms of impressions and followers. His traffic is so bad, he’s forced to buy from a click farm) and 2—badmouthing his competitors. And he’s employed other slimy tactics. For example, he ghost-writes Stickman’s blog and he bought Dave the Rave’s website. So he writes about himself in the 3rd person on those platforms, pretending to be those two blokes, and posts glowing reviews about himself (the word you’re looking for is ‘pathetic’). Then, he pretends to be readers who write in and praises himself some more. Why does he go through all this trouble? Because he knows he’s talentless, and he’s terrified that his employers will figure out he’s just a big fat cocksucking fraud.
Now you might be asking, Seven, why the fuck are you wasting time talking about this gaping asshole? Well, it just so happens that this same underwear skidmark goes around town talking shit about me to anyone who’ll listen, especially gogo bar owners. Why? I actually don’t know. It might be because I embarrassed him in a Twitter exchange 6 years ago. I also think he perceives me as some kind of threat to his work (which I’m not—but he’s apparently too stupid to figure that out). Things came to a head on Friday after I posted on X how he pretends to be Dave and Stick and writes about himself—an act so contemptible and scummy, I couldn’t let it go without saying something. His response was to threaten to get me fired from my day job by telling my boss I’m actually Bangkok Seven (thankfully, my boss wouldn’t care so the stankvagina’s plans were foiled from the get-go). To sum up, his response to me exposing him as a grifter and a douchebag was….to be an even bigger douchebag.
I should stop here and point out that, all my life, I’ve had a gift for insults. I’m not talented in most respects, but when it comes to verbally eviscerating someone, I’m pretty capable. And every time someone engages in lexical sparring with me, it always ends the same—with them threatening physical violence. So here’s how it went down with the twat in question, through comments on X: He threatened to get me fired. I told him if he keeps fucking with me, I’ll continue exposing him as a shyster. He said “Oh, I’m so scared.” I said that was obvious. Why else would he threaten my livelihood? which incidentally was more proof of his douchebaggery. He told me to stop hiding behind a mask (missing the irony that he pretends to be two different Bangkok bloggers) and invoked my given name, as if that was supposed to have an effect. I told him to suck my taint. He said he’d see me that evening (I assume somewhere in the redlight), which is the implied threat. It’s laughable, because he’s about as intimidating as a discarded tampon. I’m pretty sure I could choke him to death with one hand. The only way he could get at me is if he snuck up behind me in a dark alley and stabbed me in the back. So if that happens, you heard it here first—that human venereal wart did it.
The thing is, if he would just stop being a dickhead, I’d stop exposing his chicanery. But he just. Can’t. Do it. He’d rather kill me. I guess when you’ve been human garbage your entire life, it’s impossible to change. Ah well, as the French say, “il est de la merde.”
I did in fact see him in Nana Plaza that same night, and briefly considered throwing him down a flight of stairs. But the fact that he has to live with himself, knowing he’s the biggest cunt in Bangkok, is punishment enough.
For years, I had a rule: in the gogo, I only bought drinks for the girls in my harem. Today, it’s the opposite, mainly because—with the exception of one—my harem have left the pole. I’ve become one of those old locals who gets mobbed by girls who I haven’t nailed, all vying for a drink or three on my dime. And to be honest, I don’t even care. I haven’t the time or the energy to take any of them on, and if the cost of a drink means I have a regular friend to gently paw at whilst sipping a vodka, then so be it. I’ve been a pimp for so long, it’s a persona that’s wearing thin. In the West, the cost of a female’s company is one’s entire bank account. In Thailand, it’s 220 baht.
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, 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: While it’s fun to sit in the NanaP beer garden and watch the girls come to work, if you want to order food, just go to Stumble Inn. They have air-con, and the beer garden doesn’t. Instead, they have intense heat that makes it hard to eat, plus clouds of ganja smoke. So if you want to have a meal in peace, pop into the Inn. But if you want a contact high and can stand the temperatures, then opt for the beer garden.
