Redlight Diary 30.7.23: Oats…Sown

What’s up reader, how was your week? My name’s Seven and this is my blog.

After hitting Bangkok’s three redlight districts this week I can say with confidence that the City of Angels is crowded. It’s fuckin’ rammed. People packed themselves into the Patpong gogos like clowns in a clown car. They streamed up and down Soi Cowboy like spawning salmon. They milled around in Nana Plaza like boneheaded bovines to the slaughter. It’s supposed to be low season, but I guess in a post-Covid lockdown world, there’s no such thing as low season. Travelers worldwide seem to be overcoming their fears of viruses in stages. When the travel ban was first lifted last year, Thailand was inundated with the bravest first. The ones that–were they in a Braveheart-like battle on a Scottish field–would be the ones charging the English first, leading the horde, blue-faced and screaming. Those frustrated, finally-free fans of fanny were the first to board planes and inundate the redlights like warriors. Today’s wave are those masses that were initially hesitant to venture out. If the first wave were the ‘special forces’ of tourism, we’re now encountering the infantry. The grunts. The cannon fodder.

And it’s a good thing, at least for the economy of Thailand and the bank accounts of those gogo dancers who survive on the cusp of the poverty line. My pole-dancing friends are finally getting back into the black, and that makes this weary monger very, very happy.

In an effort to eat well last week, I stopped in to French Kiss for a plate of lamb shank and mash, paired with a lovely glass of red (I think it was Pinot). I’ve eaten there regularly for six years and never had a bad meal. I never even had a mediocre meal. Everything they turn out is miraculous.

I also tried Isabelle in the Mahanakhon Cube. Their menu is a dizzying array of fabulous fare, from truffle risotto to lobster pasta and lamb Bolognese. I passed on all of it and had pizza instead—bacon mushroom and black truffle prosciutto, and washed them down with a glass of cab franc from Argentina. Every bite was excellent.

Last week, I hit the Pong thrice, and all three times, the Night Market and beer garden were jammed with people. It was easily the busiest week since pre-plandemic days. I visited my usual gogos, and also made a long-delayed return to King’s Castle 2, after the shaved baboon who hates me and who worked there the past few months was fired. That freed me up to check out the scene. It turns out there are so many girls scrambling to work in King’s 1 and K Corner that they took teams from both to stack the place with hotties. Many familiar faces beamed back at me from the stage, though there were enough newbies to pitch a fit when I pulled out my phone and snapped a couple photos. The bar staff had to explain to them, “That’s Seven…he can do what he wants.”

I had forgotten how much I love King’s 2. It’s where I met Rutty, one of my all-time fave harem girls who stuck with me for six years. I only let her go after the lockdowns because she put on too much weight. It broke my heart to cut her loose.

My new pet peeve in the gogo is girls onstage who stop dancing to wai me. For fuck’s sake, I’m just a random asshole. Ignore me, please, and get back to shaking what your mama gave you.

On my Soi Cowboy night, I passed up Oasis, since four visits in a row felt like overkill, and walked on to Scruffy Murphy’s for a Heiney pint (160b) and a steak baguette (475b). It’s certainly unique among the pub menus in BKK: thinly-sliced steak, grilled onions, capsicum (what Americans call bell peppers) and mushrooms smothered in cheese and stuffed into a baguette. ‘Twasn’t easy to eat, but I gobbled up every morsel. Like last week’s dinner that was nearly ruined by loud Americans in Oasis, Scruffy’s was crammed with cunt tourists and shitty expats all shouting over each other. Two Arab guys (or maybe they were Indian, I’m not good at picking out folks from that part of the world) with their middle-aged Thai girlfriends made the yanks at Oasis seem like church mice. The dudes spoke Thai with a grating accent that somehow sounded like Urdu and never got within a reasonable decibel for normal speech.

I rolled into Dollhouse without any of the locals who I normally hang with in there. I’m the least-known of that crew, yet the staff greeted me like a long-lost friend. “You come alone?” asked the barmaid. “You want draft beer?” She remembered my happy hour order. That’s class.

There’s a girl in DH…I want to say she’s number 69, but they’re all number 69…who I love to just feast my eyes on. Her face isn’t aesthetically pretty, but she’s got a body like a brick house. She ignores me completely, a thing that would’ve driven me crazy a decade ago but how that I’m old, works just fine. I don’t want to bang her, or buy her a drink, or even have a conversation. I just want to enjoy her perfect physiognomy. Her body would be at home were it on display in the Louvre.

In Rainbow, the girls really put on the hard-sell. I suppose that’s the norm on Cowboy, since the ratio of tourists to locals is probably 10 to 1 and that’s what the noobs want. They need the bars to make it easy to find a girl, sit with her, barfine her, and take her out. This worn-out punter ain’t interested in that, so I have to placate the confused girls and mamasans with a lie: “I’m waiting for my friend Bee.” They scrambled to find her, and reported back that she was in a taxi on her way to work. I pretended to be grateful for the info. Meanwhile, there was plenty of new talent to ogle. From end to end, the stage was packed with NYS and NFTs (newyoungskinnies and newfaketitties). Moments later, Bee burst into the bar, swooped to the seat next to me and gently cradled my twig n berries. I reciprocated by giving her NFTs a squeeze. She then went upstairs to change, and when she didn’t return after five minutes, I got impatient and bailed to NanaP to hang with my girls in WhiskeyNGogo. On my way out the Soi, I noticed two more weed shops. What an amazing change from pre-Covid redlight life, ay? Soon, Cowboy will have almost as many weed dispensaries as gogos.

In WhiskeyGG, Pu, Beer, and Little Nan bum-rushed me for soju, the latter even littler than the last time I saw her. She has some kind of eating disorder and is wasting away. I popped down to the Twister terrace to get her some french fries in a feeble attempt to keep her alive.

Speaking of Twister, they had some new girls, and by ‘new’ I mean new to Twister. I recognized a trio from The Strip. In fact, I tallied up girls from Bada Bing, Pink Panther, XXX, and Glamour all onstage at once. Twister is a Frankenstein’s monster of old Patpong. Puy came over and sat on my lap for the length of one SML. Then I wandered up to Angelwitch to check on Joey D. For the 2nd time that night, I witnessed a dude ordering a glass of wine in a gogo. The first was an old codger who got served a huge goblet of Chablis in Rainbow. And now this geriatric weirdo had a glass of red that no doubt came from a box. As a former California wine snob, I could never do it. Life’s too short to drink bad wine. The DJ pumped out Nirvana, followed by Bon Jovi, Rammstein, AC/DC’s “Back in Black,” and Metallica. The Plaza was packed to the rafters, like the heydays before the global economic slam half a decade ago.

Changing the subject, I first noticed how small Thailand was when, a few years ago, I was traipsing through a BTS station and ran into an old friend who was bar girl from Disappointment Street in Ao Nan, Krabi. A month later, I was walking down the Beach Road in Pattaya and passed a girl who’d been my quasi-girlfriend from 2010 to 2012. These days, I have encounters like this: a dude walks into a gogo with his Thai girlfriend, who sees me and does a double-take, then gives me a knowing smirk, and it takes me a minute to remember I banged her 10 years or so ago in a Chaweng Beach bungalow or Patong back-alley massage shop. For many years, I was a veritable man-whore here—longer than anyone should be. Despite ruining several American girls before relocating to TLOS, I somehow hadn’t yet sufficiently sown my wild oats. It took an epic stretch of wild abandon from Krabi to BKK to sate my yearning for physical conquest, a pinnacle I finally reached around 2020. At long last, I’m happy to stop trawling for strange. Plus, I’ve got a pretty solid harem now, and I don’t want to cheat on them. They don’t deserve that.

Speaking of not nailing strangers, I’m currently in Ptown (Pattaya for you non-expats) doing everything except that. In fact, one of the reasons for coming here in current year is to take a break from the physical demands of my harem. Is it ironic to come to the most sinful city in the world to be celibate? Yes, but the tragicomedy that is my life is nothing if not ironic. At any rate, I’m having a blast and will report on the events in next week’s post.

A while ago, I started selling copies of my artwork online, as well as photo albums from gogo bars past and present. Currently there are 10 albums consisting of art with gogo dancers as models, plus photo retrospectives of XXX Lounge, King’s Castle 1, The Strip, 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 plus a bunch of selfies sent to me by WhiskeyNGogo girls Sai, Earn, and Beer.

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: Last week, I got a Twitter comment from a dude who said “Every time I walk through the Patpong Night Market I get shouted at by the staff outside the ping pong show. It’s very awkward.” First, I’m not the boss of Patpong. I have no power to stop them from shouting at passersby. Second, complaining about the ping pong show in Patpong is like saying, “Every time I take a shower, I get wet.” Bangkok is full of night markets that don’t have ping pong shows. If you don’t want to get shouted at, go to one of those.

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