What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession. Apologies in advance—I didn’t redlight a lot last week. My number 1 concubine had a death in the family, and she hid out from all the drama at my place for a few days. It’s the first time I ever let a harem girl stay overnight, and we briefly played the parts of an old married couple, much to the chagrin of other concs who called consistently and had to be turned away. But I did manage to Pong once, before Friday’s freakish events turned everything sideways. But more on that later…
Goddam, that air quality is poor, ain’t it? It’s almost post-apocalyptic out there. Fingers crossed it’s giving the tourists lung cancer. As the weekend neared, my conc packed up and went back home, so I set out t’Pong. The streets teemed with hippie backpackers. Some flowed into 7-11 to do their grocery shopping for the week, only to return to their hotel room and lament the depletion of their holiday budgets while watching Thai TV and slurping Mama noodles.. Others donned their stinkiest bohemian garb and flooded the Night Market to live their best lives with plates of pad thai and cut-open coconuts. I rolled into K1 for some blessed aircon. ‘Twas too steamy to start on the terrace. The gal I’ve been trying to coax to my apartment was onstsge, sporting a new, radically short haircut resembling the red-and-yellow-dressed robot girl from squid game. To me, it looked atrocious. I guess that’s one less gash to splash, at least until she gets extensions. I did have her over for a drink though, so I could massage her naughty bits.
Four farang dudes walked in with beers in their hands. One was in his 60s. The others could’ve been his sons, as he appeared to be showing them what the inside of a gogo looks like, imparting his wisdom onto them like sex apprentices. He sat right next to the stage while the others stood round him, blocking the path to the bar and cashier. When a barmaid came over to say “you need to buy a drink” he shooed her away. Then a faram (farang clam) came in and joined them. It was then that I wished the King’s Group had proper bouncers who would beat the everloving shit out of those cunts.
Offy tried to sit with me and squid-game-hair girl but I denied her. Not that I’m averse to a double drink date, but their chemistry just didn’t gel. So instead I slipped her a hundy on my way to the terrace for a Honey Backwoods and Chivas. The old Thai guy who works outside kings and whom I’ve known for over 10 years hobbled up and said, “Four day not see you. I have cigars to sell now. You want to see?” and I said “Yes,” though I suspected they would suck. Imagine my surprise when he handed me a Partagas Serie 4. He asked for 2,000. I said I’d need to go to an ATM. He said not to worry, just pay later, and walked off. It didn’t smell like a Cuban, and it was precut. I got the feeling the stick somehow fell into the dude’s lap and he wanted to unload it. On lighting it up however, it tasted right and burned like it’d been in a humidor, so I thanked the universe for randomly bringing me a Cuban on the K1 terrace for the 3rd time in a year and puffed on that sucker for the next hour.
The gang of cunt farang that sauntered into The Castle without buying drinks wandered by. It turned out they had a 2nd faram, this one holding a toddler. They stopped outside K3 so the baby could get an eyeful of the stage. The hostess tried to pull the dudes inside, as is her job, and one of them gave her the stiff arm before pretending to run in on his own while the others laughed. Anytime I see foreigners making fun of the redlight, as if they possess some moral superiority, I want to break their skulls open. And if it sounds like I’ve got violence on the brain more than usual, I do. It happens near the end of every high season when I’ve had it up to here with stupid Westerners. They behave like pigs that escaped the pen. And it’s not just white folks. Three nipons wandered past and the same hostess took one by the arm, as all Thai gogo hostesses do. The man looked as though he’d punch her in the face. He took great offense, and as a dancer pulled out her phone to use Google translate to chat to him, he pointed at her with a look of pure rage and covered his face, as though he thought she planned to take his photo. He took a step toward her and I stood up, ready to kick his legs out if necessary. He didn’t look my way but froze for a second before walking on.
Right now, there are around half a dozen newhotskinnies in K3 who look like carbon copies of each other. They’re all tall, slender, and beautiful. The only variation is their tattoos. On random other nights, I’ve bought some drinks and slipped hundies into others’ bras, but was too intoxicated on those occasions to remember who I’d flirted with, so it was all for naught. I’ll have to start over from scratch and take notes next time.
In Virgin, I encountered a stage full of veterans, though not all were Pong stalwarts. The new faces were new only to that bar and not the life. You can always tell a dancer who’s been in the game for a while. Tattoos are the first indicator. Inhibition is the second. The gogo vixen knows her assets and flaunts them through her movements. For example, if she’s got a great ass, she’ll turn her back to the punters and preen, not unlike a bodybuilder in a Mr. Universe contest, except instead of brute strength, she’s showcasing her amiability regarding getting plowed in a shorttime tryst.
Virgin is where I get wai’d by girls I don’t recognize. Clearly they know Seven from some other bar elsewhere in BKK. I imagine it’s what celebrities experience when they’re out in public, except it only happens to me in the redlight. It reminds me of the time I was sat in a Starbucks in Malibu, writing a novel that inevitably no one would read, and while I was lost in thought I realized I was staring at a woman who looked remarkably like 80s supermodel Cindy Crawford. When I realized she was staring back as if to say “You got a problem?” it dawned on me that it was in fact Cindy Crawford, and I quickly averted my gaze, embarrassed at the whole encounter.
There was a time when I wanted to bang around three girls in Virgin. That’s no longer the case, for a variety of reasons. Mostly it’s due to my slowing libido. I hesitate to say anything that could be perceived as negative about the bar, though. Back when I started this blog, I was known for being brutally honest about the gogos. I had no compunction about telling the truth, even if it was bad PR for the bar. Owners and managers used to read my posts religiously, skimming through them to look for mention of their gogos. But after a slew of threats and bans, I ceased all that. I don’t do what twats like Bob the Knob do, shitting on bars that don’t pay him and lying that his bosses’ bars are good when they’re not. I simply don’t mention the ones that suck. I also avoid the bars that The Knob works for. It preempts the owners from sending me angry emails. And yeah, it’s a shame you can’t tell the truth about the bars, because a lot of dudes would like to have that information. And it used to be, when I’d go to The Knob’s bars, I’d try to find something good to say about them. Now all they get from me is silence, so there’s no telling whether they’re good or not. You sure as fuck can’t trust Bob’s word–and by Bob, I mean Dave the Rave, since that’s Bob now. And sure, there are other redlight blogs out there, but Christ on a cracker, are they ever awful reads. I’d rather watch paint dry.
King’s Corner was packed to the rafters with pussy soldiers. That’s my new term for gogo dancers who’re all about the shorttime. Ironically, many gals who work in the redlight aren’t interested in banging customers. They want to dance, get drinks, and collect a paycheck, and that’s all. And to be honest those are the ones I’m interested in. The chase is more satisfying. But there’s something to be said about a room full of women who put that gash on display for the express purpose of trading it for cash. I respect those gals. I love those gals. They’re the healing balm for a planet of men whose women back home have forsaken them. They are the lifeline preserving the equilibrium of society. In short, they are clunge heroines.
On Friday afternoon, as you locals know, we were favored with an earthquake that emptied out every rooftop pool in the city. As my 15th floor condo began to sway, I did what every Cali native does in that situation. I stood in the doorway, waiting patiently for it to pass. I’ve been in a couple dozen of ‘em, so ‘twas no big deal for this portly pint pilferer. The tremor was what we in LA call a “slow roller.” Not the scariest variety of quake, mind you. Meanwhile everyone else on my floor fled for their lives, squawking and mewling like children. A couple of morons took the lift. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’tve placed such faith in an old building not constructed with earthquake fail-safes. But after five minutes I was back on my sofa. A couple hours later I ordered foodpanda and when I went down to the street to get it, I was shocked to see hundreds of people sitting around on the ground, refusing to reenter their places of work. Rush-hour traffic had the streets clogged as everyone went home early. My scheduled concubine messaged to say she’d be postponing, as the Skytrain and MRT were shut down, and Nana Plaza closed for the night. A bit of overkill, if you ask me. I was curious to see how the quake would affect the redlight, but I dared not go to Cowboy, since it’d be the go-to for all the Nana riffraff, so I Ponged again.
The streets were rammed with stranded Thais who couldn’t get home due to the train closures. Rush-hour traffic persisted for the same reason. Half the food court was missing and the Night Market had not been erected, and at 20.30, Radio City, King’s 2 and 3, and both Virgins were shut, as none of the dancers had shown up for work. Bada Bing was open but with no one onstage. K1 had four girls on the clock. I chatted to one who said the experience was terrifying. I told her they’re common where I come from and she said she’d never felt anything like it before. A bar staffer asked me if there would be aftershocks. I said I wasn’t sure but probably not. Then he asked if anyone in the US or UK felt it, too. I said no, maybe Myanmar or Laos, and hid my bemusement at the question. I suppose if your only exposure to earthquakes comes from Hollywood disaster movies, it’s not that far-fetched an idea.
Looking out at Soi 1without the Night Market reminded me of pre-shutdown-post-travel ban Covid days. The shops were oases of light on a dim and intimidating (dimtimidating for short) street. Confused tourists meandered to and fro, unsure of what to do or where to go. Eager sex tourists pensively approached the doors of K’s 1 and 3, only to be dejected at the sight of an empty stage. Every high rise in Silom was shut, yet somehow Patpong’s old dilapidated buildings were fine, with the exception of Foodland. Their parking structure has been ready to collapse for years. Without any gogos to hit up, the ping pong shows got a temporary boost of foot traffic.
At 21.00, the dancers started to roll in, and by 21.30 The Castle looked like any normal night. The case was not the same for K Corner, where I was the only customer at 21.45. It was likely because of the lack of a Night Market. That portion of the soi was quite dark and bare-bones. Across the street, K2 showed signs of opening. I finished my drink and hit them up just as the girlies took the stage. I recognized no one, and focused my dark thoughts at a superhot newbie who did her best to avoid eye contact. I was going to have her over, but then she skittered off to the toilet and returned swaying and grasping at the pole—a clear indicator of drug use.
Over in K3 I spotted what would’ve been a perfect 10, except she’d ruined herself with a chin implant. I wish to fuck these chicks would stop fucking with their faces. If I wanted a girl with western features I wouldn’t have moved halfway around the world. Plus, implants don’t make a Thai look western. They always end up looking like a puppet or a CGI character from a video game.
As the hours rolled by and social media and Western Media exploded with the earthquake story, friends from the US began messaging to see if I was alive. A girl from high school who I hadn’t spoken to in 30 years sent me a Facebook message. I suspected it was her job to keep track of the people from our graduating class who’ve died, and wanted to know if she could add my name to the list. Not yet, sweetie. Not yet. The various videos sweeping over X and Instagram were somewhat horrifying. More than one building collapsed, though I couldn’t verify if they were in Thailand or Myanmar. I’m sure the vast majority of Thais are traumatized. On Saturday, the Silom/Patpong street vendors were open by 13.00 and the Night Market went up three hours early, in hopes no doubt of recouping some of the loss from the previous day’s closure. Here’s hoping for an uneventful rest-of-2025, at least for us self-exiles here in TLOS.
In other news, last week I was minding my own business, scrolling through Facebook on my phone, and a post from the worst person in Bangkok—Shitbag Bob aka Bob the Knob aka the fake Dave the Rave aka the lumpy sack of circumcised foreskins—came up on my feed. In it he touted the opening of one of his employers’ new bars in Nana Plaza—Tip Top or something like that—and since he’d been hired by default to do their photos, he said “welcome to the Digital a-Gogo family (that’s the name of his retarded sub-average PR business).” And yes, it’s pathetic that Bob is so unloved that the closest thing he has to family are the people he works for, and I probably shouldn’t make fun of him for it. But I have no empathy for someone so lowdown, so bereft of humanity, so stupid, so cruel to others, so self-absorbed and self-serving that he is despised by everyone who knows him, and so I posted about it on X. And Bob did what he always does when I roast him. He tattled, reporting me for hateful conduct, which is wrong for two reasons. First, X’s policy on hate covers “promoting violence or threats based on race, national origin, sexual orientation, gender, religious affiliation, age, disability, or serious disease.” I mentioned none of those things. My assertion was and is that Bob’s a cunt, which isn’t even an opinion. It’s objectively true. Second, I don’t hate Bob. Unless one of his shitty photos or brain-dead comments appears in my FB feed, I forget he exists. That’s not hate. Besides, you don’t hate the dog for shitting on the rug. But you do rub his nose in it, and I’m going to rub Bob’s nose in his own scummy behavior every time it’s put in front of me, especially when he pretends that he, by himself, taking mediocre gogo photos constitutes a ‘family.’ Fucking pathetic. He’s a low-IQ, childish asshole with a god complex and a Napoleon complex at the same time, and I’m going to eat his lunch until the day he dies.
Last week, I learned what an “Irish exit” is. Turns out I’ve been doing it all my life, unaware that it had a name. And since my great-great grandparents are from Cork, I guess it’s fitting. Now, when my friends get pissed that I bailed on them without telling them first, I can blame it on my heritage.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is another collection of sexy selfies, sent to me by various gogo dancers over the last couple of years. The link is here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-random-gogo-dancer-selfies/
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 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:
@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.
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: If, God forbid, Bangkok encounters another quake, and you’re in a skyscraper or a mall, get under a table to avoid light falling debris. If you’re in a house, stand in the doorjamb. If you’re in a pool or on a boat, hang on for dear life.
