Are you ready, reader? Have you cinched up your trousers? Pulled extra cash out? Tightened your shoelaces? Shaved your balls? Because low season’s about to end—the least-low low season this old monger has ever seen, and the tidal wave of sweaty foreigners poised to crash against the redlights in a couple months will. Be. Epic.
I hope I’m wrong. It used to be that Bangkok never saw a low season. Back before the economic dearth circa 2017, there was no difference in foot traffic between summer and winter in BKK. Then when the world collectively started pinching their pennies, the crowds ebbed for half the year and tourism in the capital’s redlights began to resemble countrywide fluctuations. In 2023, though, at best BKK is back to normal where the stream stays steady year-round. At worst, this summer surge forecasts an absolutely bananas winter. I pray it ain’t so. But my spidey-sense says we locals are about to be clusterfucked. It’s great news for bar owners, gogo dancers, and rotie vendors. But for those of us who prefer the easy-pickings and effortless barfines of low season, those fuckin’ tourists are a thorn in our side.
Despite efforts to curb early-week mongering, I Pong’d on Sunday, mainly because I had no drinking water in my apartment, and one cannot simply go to 7-11 and back—not when one lives a block from the redlight. That’s daft. My first stop was at G’s German for a boot of Weihenstephan wheat and a salad. That’s how I compensate for my beer consumption these days. A fuckin’ salad. Guido mentioned that his Oktoberfest shipment should arrive on Tuesday so I made a mental note to check back before the weekend. From there, I did a mini-tour of the Pong, sticking to Soi 1, hitting Radio City and the 3 Kings.
Som was in K Corner again. She materialized out of nowhere, sat down, and slung her legs over mine, insisting I give her a calf massage. I obliged, but not before giving her cooter a quick pat-down. We had the usual gogo conversation. Where’d I visited before here, where am I going next, is such-and-such bar busier than this one. Then I was on to K2, where everybody wai’s, the girls have hungry eyes, and my libido dies. Not that there aren’t fetching females therein. But I’m not in the market for anyone new. I still have harem girls scattered among the other bars. Speaking of, Ice turned up in K1 after a long hiatus. She walked in late, sat with me, no makeup and still holding her bag. “What day you can?” she asked. It means, “When can I come over?” I said what I always say: “…not sure.” I’m noncommittal.
Radio City only had 6 girls divided into two triotations (trio rotations). I tipped them all for good luck, because on a Sunday in Patpong, they were gonna need it.
The Night Market’s been quieter since the removal of the tables and chairs from outside the ping pong show. Now there’s nowhere for tourists to sit and munch on all the goodies, making that end of the soi look deserted.
Friday I was into Dollhouse early to watch my muse, who was strutting around the stage like she owned the place. I recently discovered another girl in her rotation who’s equally as inspiring. She’s a petite brunette (the other’s a blonde) and my eyes flit back and forth between them like a sexy tennis match.
A brief rain shower tempered traffic on Cowboy for about 20 minutes. Only the cops collecting tea money were unhindered by the weather.
There’s lots of new hotness in Rainbow. I’ve never seen them before, so they’re either fresh off the bus or transplants from Ptown or Phuket. Bee sat with me per usual. She mentioned that on the 15th of this month, Rainbow’s upstairs stage will reopen. Yes, the tourist traffic is that good lately.
Allow me to wax philosophic for a moment.
For a decade in Thailand, I took perky asses and sixpack abs for granted. Fit Thai girls were everywhere, and I do mean, everywhere. Then, thanks to the influx of American fast food joints, the fatness began to creep in, affecting and afflicting so many hotties. Then the plandemic plunged so many gogo dancers into poverty. Some reacted by laying in bed all day eating ice cream for two years. Others had nothing to eat, and if the latter were flabby, they tightened right up. Now that we’re on the backslope of that 2-year nightmare, I can’t wrap my head around the recent trend of fit girls in the gogos, but nevertheless…they’re there.
From Rainbow to Twister, the fitchick trend continued. I found a seat in a dark corner, and Lined Oil to ask if she was on hand. She responded by sending a photo of her POV, sitting with a customer elsewhere in the bar and asked “Where you sit?” I responded with a pic of my own and a view of the stage’s left side. I counted over half a dozen new hotties in there, in addition to the already-established gang of gorgeous gals. Speaking of, Nat was onstage in her thigh-high leather boots. I gave her ass a friendly slap on my way to the loo. As I headed back to my seat, a former Kiss Patpong girl spotted me and tried to sit down. Oil ran up and shooed her away. I feel bad for Oil lately. Her mum’s in hospital and the prognosis isn’t good. I gave her a couple thousand, but it won’t be enough to cover the doctor bill. She said to me, “I hope a customer play bar me tonight,” and I realized she didn’t know that “play” and “pay” are different words. And why would she? The Thai language doesn’t have the ‘pl’ consonant cluster. It made me wonder whether she thought the word “pray” also meant the same thing. From a certain POV, in a gogo dancer’s life at least, all three words are interchangeable.
Angelwitch was an insane asylum on my visit. I’ve never seen it so crowded. I assumed the draw was the new professional pole dancer shows they put on on weekends. In fact, several gogos have embraced the trend, employing the sexy acrobats to entice customers. As a Los Angeles native, I’m not interested in great pole dancing. I got enough of that for 15 years before moving here. As crazy as it sounds, I prefer watching a girl who I could potentially bang do the skytrain shuffle than a mid-30s untouchable do the twirl. I suppose if you’re from smalltown Essex, it’s a spectacle. This longtime Vegas lounge lizard couldn’t care less. I was much more interested in Angelwitch’s two new hotties.
From there I made a harrowing mo’taxi ride t’Pong. My driver was clearly flying on yaba. He rode with one hand on the bike while checking his phone, wiping his nose, and scratching imaginary lice with the other. In a situation like that, you have to relax and let the universe decide your fate. The upside is, everything’s in sharper focus—at least for the duration of the ride.
Bada Bing carried on the flat-abs trend and was completely rammed. By 23.00, I was stupid-drunk. I tried to hit Pink Panther but the Muay Thai exhibition was still going. I took the last open seat in K Corner and snapped a couple pics for this week’s slideshow. A gogo dancer and her Japanese customer both tried to stop me. I said, “It’s OK, I’m allowed.” But the dude wouldn’t relent, so I leaned over and told him to shut the fuck up. The girl flagged down a mamasan who told her, “That’s Seven. He can do what he wants.” I should get that printed on a t-shirt so the staff don’t have to keep saying it. There were so many customers in the Corner that the offstage girls had nowhere to sit. The sheer number of hotties in there is obscene. There isn’t a single bar in Cowboy or Nana that even comes close. At 23.20 I tried to sqeeze into K1 and failed.
My Saturday started out in G’s German because their shipment of Oktoberfest brew was supposed to’ve arrived. The bad news was, it hadn’t yet. The good news was, G’s has a fridge full of awesome runners-up. I had a Weihenstephaner Kellerbier and the Schlemmerpfanne—pork tenderloin, green beans, and potatoes with peppercorn gravy. And yes, it was as amazing as it sounds. Then ‘twas a hop-skip to K Corner (the 3 Kings all open before 20.00) for a slew of new titspacks (tits-n-sixpacks). The current best thing about all BKK redlights is the uptick in the numbers of hot girls (uptixpacks for short, copyright BKK7). Unfortunately, the crowds of tourists is rising in proportion to the hotties. Lately, Patpong is a bastion for Japanese and Chinese customers. A platoon of whatever the opposite of Tokyo’s finest is paraded into the Corner when I was there and swept all the good looking girls from the stage, so I pivoted to K2 where the girls have really come into their own. They’re still sharing dancers from K1 but they now have two solid rotations of 15, which is a lot for that tiny stage. I spotted four new faces in each. The only other farang in the joint—a 5 foot 1 baldy in his 30s—walked loops around the stage, high-fiving the girls. It’s probably the only physical contact he’s had with women in years. Then a drunk Japanese dude tried to tell the DJ to play a song request, waving his phone in the guy’s face, not comprehending why he couldn’t read Japanese. Two barmaids tried to help out with Google Translate. That was my cue to bail.
King’s 1 was already a beautiful party by 20.38. I hope that when I die, Heaven will be half as awesome as a K1 party. Cuz a K1 party is pornorrific. At 20.41 ten weed-reeking Americans in their late 30s waltzed in. I surmised it was a stag party. They were a gang of horrible California douchebags. When the girls started clapping to signal the rotation change, they all started clapping, and kept it going for several minutes, shouting “Thank you ladies!” They pointed and chatted about the girls onstage like middle school boys on a playground. Jesus, Buddha, and Krishna, what a collection of panty discharge. Speaking of, when the girls onstage dropped trow, they all went ballistic, whopping like preteens seeing clunge for the first time.
Both Bada Bing and Radio City had stages chock full of worthy vajay but not many customers, which is what I call a fish-in-barrel situation. A monger worth his salt would do well to hit those places when the King’s are inundated and competition for cooz is high.
I caught Beer and Sai moonlighting in Pink Panther while their normal bar—WhiskeyNGogo—is closed for remodeling. ‘Twas good to see them back in the Pong where they both belong. Beer sat for a spell and gave me her signature hand massage (see photos in this week’s YouTube slideshow—link below).
In other random news, someone commented on my Twitter last week that the quality of my redlight photos has improved and queried whether Seven got a new phone. Astute sir, whoever you are. You are correct. The better picture quality is the difference between a 12k baht phone and a 20k baht phone.
Yesterday, some odorous pap smear made a shitpost in a Facebook gogo group, naming and shaming a Walking Street bar girl, saying she harasses customers for drinks and drives everyone away with her pushy approach. I have a couple gripes with this. First, it’s a bar girl’s job to hassle dudes for drinks. If you don’t want to fend of pushy girls, you should not sit down at a beer bar in Walking Street. There are hundreds of watering holes in Ptown where you won’t get the hard sell. Second, a real man wouldn’t take photos of the girl, post them online, and then whine about it like a little baby. What’s more, the post’s comment section became a menstrual bitch session by half a dozen twats moaning about it, as if ‘bar girls asking for drinks’ is an actual problem. These smegma-leaking gashes slagged off whole redlight districts, with sweeping derision of every girl in every bar. Now, I’m fully aware that 90% of the Earth’s population are brain-dead fucking retards, and it shouldn’t be surprising to find a group of yeast-infected cucks wingeing about nonsense on the internet, but still. Cunts like this are a blight on Bangkok, and I hope they all get cervical cancer.
My gogo friends sent me a few selfies this week, which I posted to Twitter to the delight of some followers. I’ve reassembled and added them to this week’s slideshow.
Somehow I found time to barf out a new vodcast on my YouTube channel last week. It’s an ongoing series I’m calling “MGThai,” in response to the MGTOW movement in the West. If you live in Thailand, you probably don’t know that Western women have become undatable, and I have some shit to say about it, hence the new series.
Currently there are 13 albums consisting of artwork with gogo dancers as models, plus photo retrospectives of XXX Lounge, King’s Castle 1, The Strip, Bada Bing, Black Pagoda, and Electric Blue. All are available for digital download at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Check back next Sunday for another summary of red-light events. 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 @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: I’m not sure if this one’s obvious or not, but here in TLOS, where temperatures are always high, you should keep your condoms in the fridge. The longer your rubbers are exposed to heat, the more they’ll stink when you rip open the package. Keep ‘em cool right up until you need one.