What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. Well, World War 3 is on hold while the Western war hawks and banksters praise Trump for doing their bidding. It’s pretty clear he’s compromised, and following someone else’s orders, at least when it comes to foreign policy. It’s got the leftist rioters so confused about what to protest that they’re frozen in place for now. But the news cycle shifts every five minutes, so who knows what kind of cultural brushfire will spark at any given moment. Thank Buddha for lithe, muscular Thai chicks in lingerie, shaking their asses on a gogo stage. It’s a cure for all ills.
When I was a young monger, anytime I tried to take a night off from the redlight I’d get nervous. I couldn’t shake the thought that, if I died the next day, I would’ve spent my last night on Earth sitting on my couch, and someone somehow would etch that on my tombstone. Out of the back corners of my brain, an anthem would play. It was Modern Love by David Bowie, which starts “I know when to go out, I know when to stay in,” and the answer to knowing was always to go out. These days, I’m in my apartment more than the redlight, but when I do go out, it’s not to the Bowie tune. Now, more often than not, it’s The Doors’ Break on Through. “You know the day destroys the night…night divides the day. Try to run, try to hide…” and I do feel like I’m breaking through to…something. Maybe it’s not the other side. Maybe it’s just Ptown.
My mongering week began with sausage and saurkraut at G’s for protein and probiotics. Guido said it’s been really slow, so I guess the low season dip is real, though to my inattentive eye, the hordes look as thick as ever. Then I hit K1 where you’d think I was the mayor, judging from all the wais. Girls I don’t know but who know me watched my every move like hungry pumas. No charge for my drink per usual. It’s this kind of red carpet treatment that I’ll miss when I move to Ptown….or will I? There’s something great about anonymity as well. My galpal Pim came over to massage my balls and have a chat. I asked where she’d been. She said she’d been sick. I asked if it was Covid. She said “No, why?” I said there’s a flareup in BKK at the moment. She hadn’t heard about it. I bounced her titties and stuck my finger partway up her ass before stepping outside for a Backwoods and Chivas. A stiff breeze seemed to predict a coming rain shower. I observed a Night Market at half capacity, and more than a few unemployed Thai lasses looking for a gogo to call home.
In King’s 3, a tallskinny who ghosted me after I invited her to harem-up spotted me from the stage and started chatting my ear off. She’s got a real goth vibe—spider tattoos, black hair, black make-up. And with her new silicone chin implant, she resembles the mom from the old Addams Family TV show. Two new petite hotties with back tattoos lit up the stage like tiny valkyries. A trio of stupid-looking farang sauntered in and sat in front of me. Their inane conversation made me wish I was deaf. They sat cross-legged as though they had no balls. A crusty old nipon had the goth girl over for a drink. She kept staring at me as though I’d somehow be jealous. Sorry, honey. You had your chance and you blew it. You’re dead to me now.
In New2, a bunch of girls were in there who used to work in K1. I think they interchange between 1, 2, and 3. K Corner is its own thing, though. I spotted a hotskinny and, more to make the other girls envious, walked over to put a hundy in her knickers. She wai’d and shouted “Seven!” I was like, oh shit, you know me? “I leemember you,” she replied. I had no recollection of her at all.
On a rainy midweek evening I had a conc over for a BJ and afterward she carried on about how hungry she was and how she planned to get pork fried rice, and when she left I couldn’t stop thinking about pork fried rice. So off t’Pong I scampered, straight to K1, having forgotten about food the second I saw the door and the prancing ponies beyond. Galpal Pim already had a customer so I had to endure the hungry looks of a dozen or so vixens all pining for a drink. Little Miss 5K just stared. I didn’t want to ignore her, because that felt somehow like a sign of weakness, so I regularly made eye contact, nodded and smiled, and that went on for a few minutes. I think she thought she could stare me into a cocktail, or at least a tip. I’m all for being polite, but she lost her chance when she quoted 5 fucking K. The fit-to-chunky ratio was 3/10 on the night. Not good. Not good at all.
King’s 3 had a butter10—that’s a butterface with a 10 body. And to be fair, she wasn’t exactly ugly. Her face was maybe a 7, but it seemed worse because of how much hotter the rest of her was in comparison. In addition, there were two 9s and two 8s between both rotas. I didn’t recognize any, meaning the King’s keep pulling in newhotties. Its extraordinary. If there was a Guinness book of redlight records, the King’s would hold one for hotties per capita.
K Corner had two rotations of 20. Each had 4 or 5 hotfuckables among them. Construction continues in k corner where the old bar area is being refashioned into what appeared to be three VIP sections. Three new 10s in there, and two in King’s 2.
Virgin’s agency girls looked good. I spotted a few 9s. But the music was so goddam loud, I couldn’t finish my drink. The fillings nearly rattled right out my teeth. A veteran was there whom I nearly haremed a couple years ago, but skipped over because her drug habit had her down to 29 kilos. She sauntered over to say ‘hello,’ and was high per usual, but she’d put on weight—she looked to be around 35. I thought about buying her a drink, but ice heads are more trouble than they’re worth. In a few weeks she’ll have borrowed more than she could ever pay back, plus the sex is always terrible with addicts. So I squeezed her ass and sent her on her way. An old previously Pink Panther girl who used to be hot and fit but has recently packed on too many kilos smiled widely from the stage. It’s a shame she let herself go. Man, there’s very little wiggle room between hotskinny, emaciated druggie, and chunky monkey. The struggle is real for these chicks. The flipside of that was a gal in the 2nd rota who, through sheer force of will, had sculpted herself from a 7 to a 9 purely by turning up the effort onstage. I nearly barfined her, she looked so good. I spied zero ladyboys, which is the gogo equivalent of finding a bowl of jellybeans with no poop in it.
One steamy night I hoofed it over to Soi Cowboy, mainly out of boredom with Patpong. I swung into 7-11 for one of them Japanese Gatorades and tried to walk into Dollhouse with it. I got one sip before they took it off me. Jesus, I’ve been coming here for 15 years. You’d think they’d let me hang onto my water. Do they think I’m gonna buy a Dollhouse water? Cuz that would be retarded. You know who lets me sit in the gogo with a bottle of water? Every gogo in the Pong.
I sat down at 20.15, just as the chunky rota took the stage. I caught a quick glimpse of a tattooed hotskinny before she disappeared upstairs. The draft Chang was room temperature, which is to say 78 degrees Fahrenheit. The chunkers had eyes for Seven, but I couldn’t bear to look at the stage. There was too much blubber. The second rota had the one skinny I’d seen earlier plus one 8 and twelve heavyweights. I hurried to finish my beer and retrieve my sports drink. Thailand is lousy with stupid, inane rules for everything, and when I was new in country, I tolerated them all with a smile, because of the numerous fantastic-looking hotties on gogo stages. I think my patience with ridiculous rules in TLOS is inversely proportional to how far the scale tips with the invasion of gogo bovines to the redlight space.
Next, I had a Backwoods and a SML on the Long Gun terrace. I spotted many white couples in their 60s, I assume on shore leave from a cruise and checking out the naughty side of Bangkok. A few solo white clams meandered to and fro, plus farams in pairs dressed up to go dancing. Maybe this was just a short jaunt before heading to Soi 11 where they belong.
Tilac had two 10s in a rota and lots of hungry eyes everywhere. Things must be lean now that we’re in low season. Two mamasans waddled over to try to usurp ladydrinks. I paid and bailed to Rainbow, where Bee grabbed ahold of me like Titanic driftwood. She’d recently returned after a two-month hiatus in Buriram. I’m not gonna lie, it was good to see her. She’s a former Patpong stalwart who was forced to leave thanks to the nefarious behavior of a corrupt mamasan who’s name I will omit from this post because she already would like to murder me. We had along chat about her family, the state of the Bangkok redlight, and my impending move to Ptown. She’s a real sweetheart, loves to laugh, and regards me with a fondness that reminds me that I’m good at heart. I like to think of myself as a heartless asshole, but if that were true, a woman like Bee wouldn’t have such a warm spot for me.
Theni hit up Shark because, per my last week’s post, I saw a cute girl heading in there and wanted to find her. She was MIA but there were plenty of 4s a d 5s. Everyone from the bouncers to the barmaids tried to help hook me up with a barfine. One eager beaver tried to lock on, but I wasn’t having it. I ordered a club soda because I was already pretty drunk. It was 180 fucking baht.
After that I barreled back to Patpong and slid into Derby King for a bit of kow pad, because I’d clearly overdrank to the point where I was queasy. Maybe because the last time I ate was a Daniel Thaiger burger at noon. As I dug into the hot, savory goodness, I realized why fried rice is so much better in Thailand. It’s three things: lime, chilis, and fish sauce. When I have it at home, I melt butter on it and sprinkle dry chilis on top. And if possible, I like a little red sauce on there. But traditional places rarely offer, so fish sauce is the fallback condiment. And that’s fine. The world remains in its axis.
At the weekend, I had conc number one over, and she was late due to rain. By the time she left, it was dark out, and I realized I forgot to eat anything. So I set out on foot to find a meal, and per usual my feet took me to G’s for jaeger schnitzel and a Karlsberg Urpils. ‘Twas excellent as always, and afterward I was faced with the classic monger’s dilemma—to Pong or not to Pong. Honestly, if I could’ve thought of someplace more interesting to go I would’ve, but sadly, there ain’t.
As I passed by Radio City, the host, whom I’ve known for years, since back when he worked at Thigh Bar, grabbed me and pulled me inside. There were seven girls onstage. All were chunkers save one. Coincidentally, the old manager from XXX Lounge was there. He asked if I still hit the Pong every night. I told him I’ve scaled way back, and he said, “You’re getting old.” He’s not wrong. The 2nd rota were all 7s plus one 9.
K1 had another large contingent of newhotskinnies. It’s quite a spectacle, that stage. Pim came to sit for a spell and rub my balls. The row of off-duty dancers laughed at our rough play, which consisted of me sticking my hand in her crotch and spanking her thighs while she squealed. I’m always glad when a gogo dancer can help demonstrate to the others that Seven can do whatever the fuck he wants with impunity.
King’s 3 was an absolute ice box, with 10 in a rota, half chunked and half hot. King’s 2 had only a few nipon customers plus nine dancers onstage. All but two were new faces. A clam who I tried to harem up and who rejected me asked for a ladydrink. Instead, I slowly doled out 90 baht in 10b coins, one at a time, throughout her rotation. She was unsure how to feel. Clearly she didn’t like being turned down for a drink, but every time I set a coin on the table and she grabbed it, a smile lit up her face. I thought it must’ve been the same look she got as a child when her mother gave her candy money in 7-11.
In other news, Season 4 of The Bear came out last week and in binged it in a day. I had trouble with the dialogue. It could be because its set in Chicago, or because I’ve lived outside the US for 17 years and I’m not up on the lingo. But more likely it’s the fact that television writers don’t write realistic dialogue. They write what they hear in their head, which exists in a fictional realm with hyper-realized people who think thoughts and want things that would be unrealistic, even ridiculous, in the real world. And I suppose it’s also because the real world sucks, and we watch TV to escape the mundane. The problem is, there is no better teacher than the idiot box, and the playdough-brained public parrot what they hear coming out of it. And so the ridiculous shit that TV writers give to characters to say, inevitably becomes real-world vernacular. It’s the classic chicken-egg loop of life imitating art imitating life. All that is to say, I love The Bear but I hate listening to them talk. I wish someone would make a series where nobody speaks. It hurts my brain to listen to neurotic douches prattle on about nonsense.
My morning walks have given me a new appreciation for Bangkok, just as I’m preparing to move to Ptown. Mornings in BK are a buzzing beehive, with throngs of Thais hurrying to work while others strive to feed and lubricate them, old fat farang trundling to their low-paying English teacher jobs, young digital nomads out for a jog. Dudes in rubber boots and hoses rinsing off last night’s mistakes.
One morning, my feet took me around Lumpini Park. My earbuds played “Rent” by the Pet Shop Boys. It’s a perfect analogy for what my harem undoubtedly think of me: “I love you…you pay my rent.” Standing sentry at the front gate was a pot-bellied monitor lizard out for a stroll. There were lots of health nuts walking and jogging round the lakes—nobody I’d call good-looking. It was mostly chunkers trying to lose the ice cream weight and old fogies trying to fend off the grim reaper. Plus one or two serious runners trailing clouds of sweat stank behind them. On my way home, I decided to actually buy some stuff from the abundant morning markets that line the alleys around my building. I picked up some honey-sweetened lemonade, two kinds of beetroot juice, black cherries, bananas, and blueberries, along with my usual kiwi and dragon fruit. Everything was fantastic, and I wished I’d started buying from these markets years ago.
The Thai govt squashed the ganja industry last week, in yet another example in the endless list of examples of Thais shooting themselves in the foot. It remains to be seen how strict the shutdown will be. According to the press, only medical-licensed shops will be permitted to remain open. We shall see. Adding to the craziness is a new round of changes being considered regarding the selling of booze. Will the govt extend drinking hours? Will dry days be eliminated? It’s all up in the air at the moment. This govt behaves like a chicken with its head cut off.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is a “lost archive” of the girls from Thigh Bar, back when it was still a gogo bar. The link is here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-lost-archive-thigh-bar/
but only if you become a Member. The price 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 put the links on my social every Friday. 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:
@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 (as shown below) for under $10 US apiece.
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: I don’t know how many need to read this, but there’s a conspiracy theory out there that a common after-effect of the Covid virus is persistent gut-related problems. If you’re like me, and your intestines have never been the same since catching the Koof, you might be interested in the regimen of self-administered sundries that’ve taken my symptoms from 6 to 2. I’ve mentioned them before, but not all at once. Here’s my daily: kiwi, purple dragon fruit, Thai fiber supplements, 3 prunes, hydrogenated water with cilantro extract, and cutting carbs and processed foods as often as possible.
