What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession.
As the US teeters on the edge of civil war, and China gears up to take southeast Asia, and the Dollar is poised to crash the global monetary system, it’s a good time to step back and take stock. Stock of what exists in our lives that isn’t a portent of disaster. Stock of what we like. What provides a raison d’etre.
In case anyone’s wondering, retirement is still kicking ass. I recently retraced my first Thailand steps in Krabi and Phuket, and am now gearing up to hit an old fave hunting ground: Phnom Penh. I’m still catching up on 10 years of lost sleep, but the downside of not waking up to an alarm is, come midnight, I ain’t tired. The sensation of not being constantly dead on my feet is a revelation.
For so many years, my routine was the same: work, eat, Pong, crash, repeat. Three months into not having a day job, it’s hard to create new rituals, but I’m making progress. They coalesce around different pleasures. I suppose I could call myself an epicurean now, as if I wasn’t before. But now, nearly every waking moment is devoted to the pursuit of pleasure, and leisure, to a degree I never thought possible.
Currently, my routine consists of waking up late, going for an iced green tea, then the grocery. Then I take a nap. Then I practice ukulele and watch a series (currently it’s The Bear, and Game of Thrones for the fourth time). Then I take another nap. Then a conc comes over, and then I go out for a bite and a bit of redlight, or some live music. Then I go home and watch YouTube videos about the Anunnaki until I fall asleep.
Last week I hit Gs German to try another new addition to the beer menu: Braupakt Blonde Ale (195b). It’s a collaboration between Weihenstephaner and St Bernardus for a beer that tastes like an amalgamation of weissbier and a pils with a spark of brewgenuity (brewing ingenuity) that quenched a thirst that was more than physical. I was transported back to 1988 to a volksmarch through the hills outside Munchen. I’d foolishly worn a black leather jacket, and when the clouds parted the heat was suffocating. I only cooled down after a few bottles of the local beer and a broken-English chat with a blonde-haired nymph whose tanned arms were covered in a thin layer of downy blonde hair. We were two teenagers in a crowd of old farts, but for a few minutes I felt like we had the whole of the countryside to ourselves. Now I’m the old fart, reliving my innocence through bottles of Bavarian bounty in Bangkok. That Germany trip was my first foray outside the US. Up until then, I didn’t know there existed beer that actually tastes good.
Then I went to check out a new spot: Parlour Bangkok, a wine bar 10 meters farther down the gay soi. Normally I would be too cowardly to venture that far into gayness, but it’s a cool-looking spot. Unfortunately, it’s strictly for gays. Not that straights can’t go there, but you’d definitely feel like a fish in the wrong aquarium.
Then it was over to K1 for a quick look at the stage and a mini Tabak on the terrace. God almighty, it was good to be back in a gogo with hotties in it. There were more good-looking girls in that one bar than in the whole of Phuket and Ao Nang. At first it was hard to catch the eye of a new barmaid. It happened with the help of 3 gogo dancers shouting and pointing. ‘Twas 99% Nipon clientele, plus me and that Cheap Charlie who buys one beer and then drinks it while bouncing between all 3 King’s like a douchey cunt. And I don’t say that to disparage douches. Thailand is where a douche can be king. But in order to do that, he must forego certain shitty habits. One of those is pinching pennies. And I don’t say that to disparage penny pitchers. I was one once. But if you can’t afford to buy 3 beers in 3 different gogos, then don’t go go. Stay home until you’ve saved enough to not be a financial drag on the redlight.
Speaking of Cheap Charlies, a wet lump of vaginal discharge passing himself off as a nightlife blogger whom I’ve nicknamed Shitbag tried spreading the rumor that I’m tight with my money in the gogo. It didn’t take hold, though, because after 14 years, everyone knows better. But I am smart with my spending. I take care of any girl that passes within my gravitational pull, and I’m good to those who are good to me. Any attempt to besmirch my generosity in the redlight is futile. But Shitbag will be a shit bag. He can’t help himself.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a girl trying to wai me. She’s new to K1 but has been on the pong for many years, working in a different gogo. When girls leave that gogo, it’s a kind of escape, like crawling over barbed wire to West Berlin in the 80s. The girls who break free act like Andy Dufresne at the ending of Shawshank Redemption. She smiled and said, “Seven, you remember me? You always bought me somtam.” It’s true that, for years, I bought dinner for any girl who asked. I don’t do that anymore, mainly because I spend most of my time in the 3 King’s now, and the King’s girls never ask.
As if by kismet, another dancer from yet a different gogo who relocated to K1 sat down in front of me. Whatever pixie dust the King’s are a’sprinkling, it’s drawing in girls like a magnet. Then I got a text from my K Corner conquest claiming it was her birthday and demanding I come buy her a drink later. I agreed as if I had a choice. She turned 25, which in gogo years is middle-age.
Then I had my cigarillo and a B Ruskie. After Phuket and Ao Nang, it was nice to have a BR that wasn’t laced with Coca-Cola.
I got to New2 just as it opened, and spotted several old friends from Pong years past. They react to me how I expect folks at their high school reunions react to each other, with whimsy, nostalgia, and a re-felt feeling of status. In a world of strangers and uncertainty, I provide a level of stability. I’m always Seven. I’m always safe.
Before meeting the birthday girl, I stopped into Virgin. ‘Twas midweek low-season quiet. The stage was half full, and Yok came to pilfer a drink from me before I could escape. As I scooted to K Corner, my girl was sitting outside, eating mama noodles. I tried and failed to find a seat inside so I joined her on the terrace for her celebratory soju. By then I was pretty drunk, but she seemed happy for the company. I never see her with girlfriends in the gogo, so she might be one of those loners who does the redlight as a solitary entity. It’s more common for girls to cluster together, like schools of fish or herds of bovines.
Later in the week, after a visit from my number 3 conc I hit the Pong, yearning for a cigarillo and some g-stringed tail. As I swept into K1 I spied the owner of another gogo who, in all my time here, I’ve never seen inside a King’s bar. Lots of owners do visit the bars of their competitors, and it’s always a friendly affair, like a summit of heads of state. But I got the feeling this guy wasn’t there for shits n’ giggles. If I had to guess, I’d say some of his dancers stopped showing up for work, and he was looking around the redlight to see if he could see where they landed. And as I said earlier, several girls from various other bars have relocated to King’s recently, so it was the most logical place to look. In fact, as I was typing this into my phone, I glanced stageward and spotted five more girls who all came here from various different gogos around Bangkok.
K 1 was full of horny Nipons. I watched several of them pull girls off the stage and barfine them right away. In fact, on the night, between all the bars I hit, i saw more barfines than I’ve seen since the early 20teens. I guess it’s true that they’re not getting laid back home. Word is, their population is on the brink of collapse, which is a travesty, since Japanese women are the hottest on the planet.
New2 was oh-so-quiet at 20.50 on a weeknight. There were only 10 girls onstage, and even fewer customers. But as I sat there, roughly a dozen late-arriving dancers rolled in, so I decided to give it a few minutes. In the time it took to consume one SML, 20 more girls came in. Customers were spoiled for choice. Then I sauntered back to K1 for a cigarillo and B Ruskie. You wouldn’t know it’s low season based on the foot traffic in the Night Market.
Virgin’s stage was like a warm blanket on a cold night. Catgirl and Nat were in rare form. A girl named Nok, who used to dance in Virgin back when it was called Glamour and who disappeared for a couple of years, pranced around like she owned the place, and why shouldn’t she? I slipped a hundy in her bra as a way of saying, “Welcome back pussy, I missed you.”
So, I’m not the brokest dude in the redlight, but I’m also not the richest. I saw one farang mofo in a black polo who barfined a girl out of Virgin and tipped every server in the joint—even the DJ—before leaving with her. He stepped out with her in tow, without acknowledging she was leaving with him, which I thought was a dick move. But I guess if you’re rich, you can treat anyone like a pleb–even the girl you just rented.
For an old monger like me, Patpong now has the perfect way to end an evening, namely with some live jazz at Groovin’ High. I had a glass of Bordeaux and melted into my chair like a hot candle, letting the beauty of ridiculously talented Thais wash over me like a wave.
One night I stopped in to Derby King for pad thai and was forced to share the restaurant with a bunch of white tourists and two very rude Chinese dudes. They shouted their order at the waitress. She meekly asked a question and they yelled YES! Then she asked another question and they belted out NO! then shooed her away with a wave of one hand. Just awful.
K1 was already crazy at 20.20 with Nipons on the prowl again, crowding into seats like it was the Japanese World Series. There’s a ton of new staff who run around like headless chickens trying to keep up with the customers. One new mamasan chased after me in the bar while shouting, because I dared to find my own seat. It’ll take time to train up the newbies. Meanwhile every other staffer bows and wais. You’d think the new gals would get the hint. Another new thing in K1 is, when I pay my bill and put a tip in the bin, the servers stand back for a second, as if waiting for an extra tip. Which I do give when someone hustles a B Ruskie out to my table on the terrace…maybe they think they all deserve something extra.
In New2, many new asses adorned the stage. The greaseball farang who always shows up with a prebought drink sauntered in with a glass of beer. I guess he bought a cheap draft from an outside bar and tried to sit down with it in King’s. A bouncer threw him out. 10 minutes later he returned and walked around the joint making conversation with various barmaids. Then he left without sitting down or buying a drink. I guess that outside draft broke his budget for the night.
New2 had three rotations of 15—quite a feat for the amount of space on the stage. I waited through all three, looking out for one or more of my galpals. When none appeared, I gave up and wandered back to K1 for a BR and cigarillo. I popped inside to order the drink and the joint was a total clusterfuck. What a difference an hour made. Triple the number of girls and customers. You could barely walk through the bar. Girls were perched on chairs in every nook and cranny. I must’ve squeezed 6 boobs along the route.
We should be well into low season by now but the number of tourists hasn’t dwindled. It’s a throwback to a decade ago, when Bangkok never had a low season. The night market teems with sweaty foreigners stuffing their faces and ogling gogo bar doorways. There’s an entire army of single Nipon horndogs trawling the pong like an episode of Deadliest Catch.
K Corner had 2 rotations of 20. I said hello to probably 10 gapals, most of whom were Corneriginals but some were dancers from places like XXX Lounge and Black Pagoda. I fist bumped another Pong local who’s been here at least as long as I have. He follows the code of nodding hello but never starting up a conversation. There’s a core of old mongers who abide by this unspoken rule. I respect that more than words can say.
Virgin was putting on a theme party: black lingerie and Mardi Gras masks. It seemed counterintuitive to cover the faces of so many fetching femmes but what do I know? I don’t own a gogo bar. I will say, it was a real briar patch trying to figure out who was wai’ing and asking for drinks. I had to resort to looking for distinctive scars and tattoos to suss out who was who like a goddam episode of CSI.
If I had to fire my harem tomorrow and start over from scratch, I could easily restock it with girls from the 3 Kings. Walking down the food court one night, a K1 girl was paying her Grab Bike. I caught up and pinched her ass, thinking it was my friend Fah but when she jumped and squealed, I realized I didn’t know her. Luckily, she knew me. “SEVEN!” she yelled and then we raced each other to K1. After she clocked in, she came and sat across from me, giving the hungry eyes. Luckily a Nipon bought her a drink and she was out of my hair.
Later, as I sat with a Tabak on the terrace, I spotted a skinny Asian girl gnawing on a meat stick in the food court. She was a skinny thing with glasses, braces, and hair tied up in a ponytail. Watching her eat was a beautiful thing to behold because she was completely socially unaware. Growing up in LA, everyone acted like a camera was pointed at them at all times. They were hyperaware of being watched–even if no one was watching them. Back when Andy Warhol had The Factory, he’d put random people in front of a camera and film them for 15 to 20 minutes, to capture the moment when they stopped being self-conscious and dropped the mask. Thais abide in a constant state of dropped-mask. For a cynical westerner like me, that kind of innocence has a power like a virgin’s blood to a vampire.
Two slender Singaporean girls, sisters by the look of them, meandered through the food stalls. After buying noodles, they couldn’t find a place to sit. Since my table had 2 empty chairs, they asked if they could share. I nodded, and they sat down. After a short, awkward silence, they—I guess out of polite obligation—engaged me in an interrogation, peppering me with questions. What’s my job, how long have I lived in Thailand, do I have a Thai wife. When I said “no” to the latter question, they ask if I have a lot of sex with the girls here. I said “Not anymore,” because to me, four girls per month in rotation doesn’t qualify as “a lot.” For those who hoped this story would end in some kind of sister 3way, I’m sorry to disappoint. They made a bit more small-talk and then bid me farewell. They were keen to see the Sexy Girls ping pong show. I considered warning them off, but kept my trap shut. Better they find out for themselves.
Late one evening when I should’ve gone home, I stumbled into groovin high to find a piano genius, a bass virtuouso, and a tap dancing farang dude dressed in a hand-made pants suit from the 1970s with a smooth baritone voice that could melt butter conjuring musical alchemy for a room of 10 people. I treacled the experience with Bordeaux.
I also popped into Dollhouse this week to say hi to Dennis and get a feel for the foot traffic. Lo and behold, what should I see but a small contingent of hotties outside Spice Girls, Tilac, and Cowboy2 like it was 2014 all over again. Not as many as back then, but enough to make a noticeable improvement. Shark had some new pretty hostesses outside as well, and DH decorated their stage with three new lookers. Things are looking up on Cowboy, at least in the pussy department. Once the gogo replacing Lighthouse (the poorly-named pun stretch Bad Beach) opens, the soi will have returned to full strength.
I checked out Rainbow just to rate the talent, and the ratio of girls who knew me vs girls I knew was 5 to 1. A barmaid asked when I cut my hair. Jeez, that was back in March. The other recognizable face was a VIM (very important monger) whose redlight fame follows him around like an aura. He gave me a big hug and I tried to ask him if he would head to Patpong later. He just smiled and walked away.
Then I Ponged, for 2 reasons. First, it was raining, which usually means less tourists. Second, I’ve been on a mission to find a new King’s girl who, when I first met her, I violated redlight rule 61 which is get the Line while you have the chance. I saw her once at the previous weekend, spoke to her for 2 minutes, and haven’t seen her since. It’s getting to the point where I fall asleep wondering where in the fuck she’s run off to. I was again disappointed to find no trace of her. I started to wonder if she’d changed gogos. I swung out to the terrace for a Honey Bourbon Backwoods and b ruskie. Some idiot American shouted, “Thats a cool shirt!” I pretended not to speak english. He pointed vigorously. “Shirt, shirt…I like, I like.” I gave him a thumbs up and he finally walked on. The shirt in question? One a them 90b Starbucks t-shirts bought in that very night market 10 years ago. I guess the dude was a real coffee fan.
Then I shuffled to Virgin where there were four customers and four new girls. Two of them had clearly never been on a gogo stage before. They looked terrified. 10 years ago, Id’ve immediately made them concubines and inducted them gently into the life. But these days I just can’t be fucked, literally and Britfiguratively. The other two were versed whores with hungry-like-the-wolf vibes. I tipped a hundy to the two scared newbies, and loved watching their expressions change from fear to joy.
And so the week was a mixture of old routines and newly-found free time with which to fill with what I hope will become new rituals. They consist of chasing after new possible concubines, relaxing more and more often, binge-rewatching old great TV series, and new pleasures where they can be found, one of which I hope to make routine–namely, trying out new eateries. Last week, it was a breakfast at 25 Degrees and charcuterie at Scarlett rooftop bar (that they’re both at the Pullman is purely coincidental). I hope to post about them in a Substack in a few days.
Here’s something I’ll call lewdcognition. It’s when you’re in the redlight, and a girl you know who’s been barfined walks past you, holding the hand of her shorttime customer, and gives you a covert smile, and you look away while also smiling. The two smiles are the knowing connection you share whilst the customer is none the wiser. This is not to be confused with embarragnition, which is the same thing, but you’ve fucked the girl in question. In that case, she strains not to make eye contact, but the tension is thick enough to rest a cocktail on.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is a series of selfies and cosplay photos of Beer, per a Member’s request, and her friend Little Nan. You can view it here:
but only if you become a Member. The price tag 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:
@bar_thigh
@BangkokNightli2
Thai chick-related posters and prints on canvas 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 you’re a cunting tourist, or if you haven’t hit a particular redlight for some time, Google it before you go. Look up a map of the bars first, and then search their names for reviews. That way you’ll be forewarned, if say, one or four gogos are known for padding checkbins.
