What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
Well, it took nearly 13 years, but my side hustle—a thing I took up just to cover rent—has finally reached a financial stage where I don’t need to keep a day job. So, after putting in 12-hour days at a thankless shithole for 10 years, I’m hanging up my hat. I’m leaving the rat race, jumping on a retirement visa, and opting for the easy life. As for redlighting, it could mean momentous change, or not. I’m looking at a couple options, one of which is a permanent move to Ptown. That, of course, would change the content of the weekly quite significantly. But I haven’t made a decision about the living situation. And I’m going to take my time. And whilst lollygagging, I will of course continue to record the goings on around me in the RLD. Speaking of, here’s how last week shook out…
A breezy last-Sunday afternoon began with a late breakfast at Shenanigan’s since Derby King was still shut post-Buchy Bucha Day. Shagz clearly needed more servers, since the terrace was packed, and Snug and the main pub were near capacity. Flagging down a barmaid took concerted effort. I ate quickly, in order to be at King’s 1 for a Jack Nites photo shot. Also because foreigners make me uncomfortable, and Shagz was lousy with them.
Outside K1 while enjoying a DE Factory Smoke and a black ruskie, a skinny farang tried to barfine one of the outdoor hostesses. He was shut down by the papasan who said he could buy her a drink inside the gogo but was forbidden from taking her home. So his experience was identical to what he’s used to back in his native country: springing for a cocktail and then going to bed alone.
K2 was closed again, thanks to Mucha Bucha. Virgin was back open with several new girls. Man, the Northern Bus Terminal must be a sight these days, with a constant stream of hot girls coming from Isaan. A sweet little blondie almost distracted me from my exgf lookalike. The girl that had hounded me for a couple weeks steered clear and sat with a tourist, giving me hope that she learned to leave me be (spoiler alert: she didn’t).
Rumors flew last week of someone thinking about renting XXX Lounge, but the anonymous investor decided to pivot to one of the shittier RLDs (Nana or Cowboy). XXX is a no-brainer, as in anyone who passes on it has no brains. What with Virgin kicking ass, the new bar going in across from Foodland, and Soi 1 drawing hordes of gawkers, XXX’d be a farang shoo-in. And I happen to know that, throughout all the scamdemic lockdowns and closures and the following year of low tourism, that gogo turned a profit every. Single. Day. And XXX reopening would be great for Patpong and even better for me, because it might mean getting my hands on the artwork of mine that’s been trapped in there for over a year.
I found a coupla new perfect 10s in K1 and K Corner. There were no seats in the former. I lucked out and found a perch near the door in the latter. A girl onstage grabbed my attention by having a body that nearly matched my first gogo love in Electric Blue back in 2014. That kind of thing is happening a lot lately: new girls coming up in the game who bear a striking resemblance to some long-lost redlight tail from days of yore. I’m calling this new phenomenon “reinclamnation.” First, it was the girl in Virgin who looks like my exgf, and how this bird with a bod like a wet nostalgia dream. I bought her a soju, chatted her up with the usual shtick, then got her Line. Lo and behold, she was already in my phone. I must’ve drunkenly pursued her weeks ago and just forgot.
Tuesday saw things getting back to normal after the multi-day closures over the Macho Nacho weekend. When I arrived onPong, the cops were busy harassing fruit shake vendors in the food court. “You buy only our mango. You not buy someone else’s mango.” Supergirls karaoke-slash-ping pong show had some foot traffic, no doubt comprised of old customers chasing some nostalgia. I find myself doing that a lot lately. I actually stopped and stared at the door of the old Madrid pizza parlor for a good few seconds, struggling to recollect my happiest memories from that awesome joint. Many of the old redlight godfathers would hold meetings in there (not to mention the CIA back in the day), or just grab a drink after work. I was partial to the pad krapow pizza.
After some pad thai in Derby King, I swept into K1, figuring I’d finally be early enough to find a seat. Surely they wouldn’t be full at 19.40 on a Tuesday. I was relegated to the back. And mine was the only Caucasian face in the place. I get that the King’s Group always has and always will cater to the Sinopon (Sino-Nipon) demographic. But I refuse to let that ilk think this is their spot. They already have their own street, one block over, where they can let their racist flag fly. Farang aren’t allowed in their exclusive girly clubs on soi Thaniya. But things are different here, motherfuckers. If you want to Pong, you must share it with me. And yeah, I know you don’t like it. Fuck yaself. I am the Baron of Patpong. You’re just a one-week millionaire.
Speaking of, a young solo Japanese guy stormed in, ordered a whiskey-Coke, downed it in 30 seconds while scrutinizing the girls onstage, dropped 200 baht and fled. He was clearly on an early barfine mission. I can respect that kind of game. He was a man with purpose. It’s sensible, unlike the douche canoe who walked in after him—a tall bald farang in a baseball cap and an extra-large surgical mask. Dude, unless you got AIDS and Omicron might kill you, lose the fucking mask. You look like a twat. Although maybe he was embarrassed to be seen in the redlight. But if that were true, then he should never have boarded the plane.
After seeing half a dozen new faces in K1, I had to check the talent next door. I slipped through the side entrance and settled near the front of the stage, where a newhotskinny shook her moneymaker right in front of me. She was nearly perfect, and had a pretty face, too. Looks aren’t something I care too much about. My only requirement is a rockin’ body. But pretty is a plus. Virgin had three new hotties. Their lineup is always in flux, but there’s a core group of fit girls that are always there. Whether any of the newbies stick around remains to be seen.
On Wednesday, my harem girl overslept so I set out early for a quick Pong. While sitting outside K2 with a DE Acid Blondie I watched a clearly American ginger couple try to dodge a ping pong barker. They were annoyed at his persistence, as if he was the one who flew to their country, went into the Starbuck’s where they work, and then didn’t order a coffee. How hard is it to smile and say, “No thank you”? What blog or travel guide instructs these twats to say nothing and look askant? In what other cultural contexts do people respond to someone asking them a question by ignoring the question and the person? If I asked a stranger a question and they pretended I didn’t exist, I’d shout my question at them.
The flight to Thailand is between 6 (if you’re Aussie) and 16 (if you’re a yank) hours. That’s plenty of time to learn “kup khun” and “mai ow.” Two fucking phrases. When I first moved here, smart phones didn’t exist, and still I had no excuse for not Googling the simplest shit before boarding the plane. If I ever become president of Thailand I’ll make it a law that tourists can’t leave the airport until they learn how to say, “Thank you,” “No thank you,” “Where’s the toilet?” and “How much?” in Thai.
Per usual, a gaggle of off-duty gogo dancers crowded around my table to smoke, make small talk and casually flirt. And it’s always a point of interest for tourists, especially dads with their gross wives and mewling offspring. They stare incredulously as if through a looking-glass at what their lives should’ve been.
A plump Singaporean dude passed by with a smoking hot girlfriend and at first I wondered why he’d bring such a fine piece to the redlight. Then I remembered a story Scott Baio told when he was dating Pamela Anderson back when she was hot. Everybody asked him what it was like to be with the most gorgeous woman in the world and he said, “For every hot girl you see, there’s a guy somewhere who’s tired of her.” Buddha’s bocce balls, that’s a truism. I have concubines that other dudes throw themselves at, who I have to psyche myself up to bang. For a whoremonger, nothing in the world beats variety.
K2 has become my default fave of the 3 King’s. There are more girls in the other two, and more hot girls at that, but you can always find a seat in K2, and the number of 6-pack/thigh gap chickies continues to grow. In fact, there are four ridiculously hot babes in there and apparently nobody knows about them yet because as I typed this into my phone, they were all onstage and hadn’t been barfined.
Virgin has turned into a reenactment of my middle school days. The hotskinny I’m trying to wean off me pounced as soon as I walked in. My exgf lookalike stared on with envy and then refused to make eye contact. Three girls onstage wouldn’t stop giving me the hungry eye. I expected to get passed a bunch of notes that said “Do you like me? Check ‘yes’ or ‘no’.” And at that moment I realized, things were going my way. The exgf lookalike asked her friend to check if I was looking at her—no joke, it was like we were all back in Year 7. Having this skinny chick next to me who I didn’t care about was driving half a dozen girls bananas. Another plus was, at one point there were 30 girls crammed onto the Virgin stage. The talent in there is exploding.
I doubled back to K1, mainly because I needed a piss, and was shocked find an open seat. K1 definitely has more chubsers than K2 and the Corner. But in current year, I guess that’s an important gogo demographic. There’s a lotta chubby chasers out there these days. Luckily there are also plenty of hotskinnies in the mix as well.
Friday began with some of the worst traffic I’ve seen in The City of Angels. But my Bolt motaxi driver was fearless and aggressive. After a couple detours on sidewalks and several moving violations he dropped me outside Stumble Inn unharmed. A long queue of idiots stood outside Nana, apparently waiting to pay some imaginary entrance fee. I got in line behind the gogo dancers and swept past the fucktards clogging the front of the Plaza.
A few weeks back, I was surprised to find the Rainbows and a couple other bars open and pumping at 19.00. Friday was more reminiscent of a preplandemic Plaza. Nobody was open at 19.30 so I had a Cuban cigarillo outside Twister.
Why do white chicks travel solo to Thailand? I get it if they’re into skinny tan Asian dudes, or want to see Phi Phi. But why are they dressed to the nines and waiting for taxis outside a ritzy hotel on Wireless Road? Where you goin’ honey? You aren’t gonna find a man in the club. Nobody’s gonna buy you a drink. I also don’t understand the troops of chubby farang clam having a night out in BK. I’ve been to those Soi 11 joints. They’re goddam depressing. Every Caucasian minge is a 6 or less, yet they all put on airs like they’re 10s. The few times I was subjected to those places (usually a work social) all I could think was, my harem are hotter than every slag in the room. And I don’t have to make stupid conversation with my concubines. “Seven did you eat yet? You want I clean your room?” That’s the start and end of it.
Here’s a new thing: I call it “delayed regret.” That’s when a gogo dancer snubs Seven, only to realize weeks or months later that, had she got on the gravy train from day one, she’dve socked away a ton of money off me over that time. That’s when they make sheepish attempts to regain my attention, but by then it’s too late. I’ve either found someone else to focus on, or said girl has put on too many kilos, or I’ve just lost interest. From then on it’s just hungry looks and disappointed glances.
It’s shocking how fast a gogo dancer can go from hot to not. An exXXX dancer who moved to WhiskeyNGogo a year ago (it now goes by a different name) and who was a borderline 9 back then is today a solid (literally) 5, having packed on more meat than any self-respecting dancer should. Back when she was at XXX, she was so hot she sent punters into fits of horny abandon. Now I avoid her calls. She wants to come over, but she’s so far gone down the chubster rabbit hole she’ll never be able to squeeze herself out. Like Winnie the Pooh when he got stuck in Rabbit’s doorway.
After fingering the snatches and squeezing the tits and ass cheeks of galpals in Essence, I randomly checked in on Random 1. ‘Twas like a private party in there, with a crew of not bad-looking good-time gals and some very happy punters who were clearly experiencing a gogo bar for the first time. I like to see those guys. I live vicariously through them. Their amazement at the sight, and almost tearful reaction to female attention. Their shock and awe at seeing the tits of a girl who actually wants them to see her tits. The feeling of being titillated without shame. The girl takes his hand and places it between her legs. He veritably melts into a puddle.
The beer could’ve been colder.
I left just as a very fit girl disrobed and sank into the bubble bath. I’ll say this for Random: they have four very hot girls in their rota.
From there I should’ve done my due diligence and checked out Dollhouse and Soi Cowboy but I chose to leave that for Saturday and instead sped t’Pong. On crossing Silom from Soi Convent, two retarded American Millennials stepped in front of a taxi with an air of arrogance that stuck in my craw. Their stupid brains can’t accept that traffic laws in Thailand are different from their hometown. I secretly hoped they’d be run over.
Outside K2 I lounged with an Acid Blondie and a 90b Leo, amongst a group of dancers on their smoke break. And by “amongst” I mean I sat down and they all casually joined me without an invitation. I don’t mind. I’m glad they feel familiar with me. After 10 years, I fucking deserve it.
According to new signs on Soi 1, the King’s 4 location currently under construction will be called “Kings 2.” Not to be confused with the current King’s 2, which is technically named “King’s II.” In addition to the new gogo, King’s 2 (4) will be open a restaurant, sports bar, and short-time hotel. Goddam that’s good business acumen. It helps that the King’s Group is in bed with all the right authoritative entities in Silom. They’re a Patpong institution—as much as Air America was back in the day, except instead of running drugs, King’s peddles poontang. It’s good that they’re opening a new venue, because Patpong currently has more customers than seats in gogos. It’s impossible to sit down in a King’s bar after 21.00.
Outside K2, a young Japanese guy came up and asked me, “Are you a regular here?” I nodded. Then he asked, “Are they all real ladies here? No ladyboys?” I forget that the untrained can’t tell the difference. Although having said that, there was a barmaid back in Random who I couldn’t tell if she was a real lady. After five minutes of scrutiny, I decided she must be a he. Better to err on that side than make a mistake. There are plenty of obviously female gals in the redlight. No sense in taking the risk.
The outdoor lights were turned off at Virgin, and on closer inspection ‘twas obvious why. Either an aircon or a fucking water main was busted on a floor above the bar because the whole front of the joint was soaked. They likely shut off the lights to avoid electrocuting any of the girls or the tourists. Regardless, the place was packed. I counted three newhotties mixed in with the veterans.
Two American one-week millionaires were dancing on a side stage, surrounded by thirsty dancers. I’m always glad to see when tourists drop money in the gogo. But they were pointing at a girl on the main stage in that way that westerners point at someone to say, “Hey we’re having fun and so are you!” it confused the fuck out of the girl, who thought they were asking her over for a ladydrink. It’s the kind of communication gap that only a stupid yank can perpetrate. The have no conception of the possibility of cultural norms outside their own.
On Saturday my Soi Cowboy plans were foiled by a tardy concubine and so I opted t’Pong at 21.00. The walk over was pleasant enough, with a nice breeze blowing between the skyscrapers of Silom, that is until I nearly witnessed a triple fatality. An Indian woman ran through a zebra crossing with her two small daughters and was nearly hit twice by a car and a motorbike, both of which skidded to a stop just inches from the stupid trio. Across the street, a whitestefarian/honkeyhippie/crackerreggae (a Caucasian douche with dreadlocks, stinking of body odor and patchouli oil having a brainless conversation with a fat farang clam at the top of his lungs. I could hear him all the way from Soi 3. “I EVEN WENT THERE FOR CHRISTMAS!!!” he boomed, with the clam nodding along, pretending her eardrums weren’t shattered.
K1 was too full. K2 was 60% full. None of my faves were there, so either they got barfined already or they hadn’t come to work yet. A Singaporean dude, or maybe Malaysian or Hong Kongian, came in and sat down, studying the girls in earnest. A barmaid came over and tried to take his drink order. He kept pointing at the door, I assume to say he had a 90b Leo waiting at a table on the terrace. The barmaid explained that if he wanted to ogle the tail, he had to buy a drink. So he grabbed an off-duty bar girl and asked her to sit with him outside. She went to throw on a robe, and he proceeded to walk in circles around the stage like a shark, violating the girls in his imagination. Speaking of sharks, I walked through the Pong around lunchtime on Saturday and recalled when Radio City used to be a gents’ club called The Den. They opened at 2 pm, had billiards tables and babes, and an aquarium suspended above the bar with two small sharks endlessly swimming round it. Man, that place was great for daydrinking. In fact, it was the place that started me down the road of daydrinking in Patpong and a Facebook page called “Bangkok Daydrinkers,” feel free to join here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/834643416918099/posts/1957816511267445/?paipv=0&eav=AfZSvUagD4uHui8yq_jl_ajQXJOt_WEPRy3F1u8zrN_wNdVO4NYjUiW2ukcfrJ9S9hM&_rdr
I stepped out to the terrace for a Romeo Y Julieta cigarillo and the aforementioned SingaMalayKonger had a vlogging setup set up at his table. Turns out he wasn’t trawling for a short-time companion. He wanted someone to be in his cunting YouTube video. He kept walking back to the door of the gogo, searching for the girl he’d talked into being interviewed. The first one chickened out. Finally she emerged, fully dressed, much to the dude’s disappointment.
The night market and food court were jammed cheek-to-jowl with idiots. 80% were a mix of Americans and Eurotwats with just a smattering of Sino-Nipon and west Asians. The former were all crammed into the King’s bars. No time for meat on a stick when there’s razor clam on offer.
I popped into K Corner and the mamasan tried to put me in a far corner. “Seven, you come, come.” I ignored her and took the open seat at the front, near the stage. I assumed they wanted to keep it free for a Sino or a Nipon. But Seven don’t play that, as you already know. The stage was packed with familiar faces and newhotness. The music was absurdly loud. I had to crank up my earbuds to drown out the awful techno. Alison Moyet was a fitting foil for that foul noise.
In Virgin, the hotskinny who attached herself to me like a barnacle some weeks before jumped into my lap the minute I sat down. I tried to push her away but she said it was her birthday, and clearly no one else in the bar cared. And so out of sympathy, I bought her a drink and tipped a hundy in her bikini top. She was ecstatic.
A foursome of old pasty farang trundled in—three old koots and one shriveled-up hag. Why in the everloving fuck they came to a gogo is beyond me. The stared as I put the skinny through her paces, pinching her nipples, biting her elbow, fingering her ass as she sat next to me. It’s run-of-the-mill for this seasoned snatch slapper but those retirees nearly went into cardiac arrest.
Then I doubled back to K1, hoping in vain for a seat. Instead, I had another small Cuban and a black ruskie on the terrace. A Japanese dude barfined two gals out of K1. I wondered if he knew they wouldn’t lez out for him and that threesomes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Both of those girls would try to not get laid and make the other one do all the work. I hoped the best for him but didn’t envy the night of aggravation he was in for.
Outside K1 I am constantly gently harassed by the hostesses. They want to borrow a cigarette lighter. They want to know if I want peanuts. They ask why I Pong alone. They ask what I’m smoking. They ask to sample it. They offer moist towelettes. They ask to sit with me. It’s exhausting. I had a moment of bemusement watching an Indian loose pea peddler accost and aging hipster in the beer garden. No amount of protestation deterred the slumdog from his appointed task. Witnessing the bewildered amazement of the tourist as such legume aggression is priceless.
My last laugh of the night was watching a ping pong barker try to coax three fat gross white clams to hit up Supergirls. They walked to the door and balked. But the dude put on the hard sell and the trio were trapped in a politeness vortex, unaware of how to escape. Finally they broke free and filed into K1 as a means of escape. That’s a bit like dodging the frying pan for the fire.
In other news, on hearing that I was retiring from my day job, a couple gogo owners asked me to manage their bar. I told them I was too old and tired for that life. I prefer to sample the wares and get home early. If I’m out past midnight, I fall to pieces. But I’m not opposed to some light labor…after I catch up on a decade’s worth of lost sleep. Perhaps I’ll find something redlight-related to do in my free time. That world is my oyster—or rather, razor clam.
There’s no slideshow this week, sorry-not-sorry. I’m less-influenced by the pressure to take pics in the redlight for the viewing pleasure of 12 people (genuine apologies to you 12 dudes). But there’s plenty of eye candy in the list of web addresses below.
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-related stuff on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
Artwork and photo albums from inside the gogos are available for digital download at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart at super-low prices.
Slideshows from previous blogs going back several years can be found at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
Thai hottie-inspired posters and prints on canvas can be purchased at
https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
Follow me on Twitter/X @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, 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: If you’re not prepared to be hassled by ping pong barkers, pan-handlers, and pea peddlers, do not come to Patpong. If you do, and you get upset at someone putting the hard sell to you, the dickhole in that scenario is you.
