What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession.
Watching world events is enough to worry a monger into an early grave. Sometimes even half a dozen concubines and a life of cigars, beer, and leisure won’t completely soothe the feeling of angst. At time of posting, the last 48 hours were a clusterfuck of bad news. The stock market fell by $2.9 trillion, the jobs numbers in the US are abysmal, and rumors of war with Iran abound. The only thing a Bangkok expat can do is turn off the computer and seek solace in everyday pleasures.
Speaking of, there’s an inordinate number of girls slinging their kitties around lately. Originally I titled this post “Keeping up with the Clunge” but I figured it wouldn’t go over well with the Facebook censors. In short, there’s a surplus of kitty/clunge/cooter out there in the redlight right now. More on that later.
My week began on Sunday with the lamb roast at Paddy Reilly on Sathorn Soi 10. Cheesy cauliflower was heavenly. Creamy and delightful. The honey glazed carrots a work of art. New item: pigs in blankets, but they’re proper breakfast sausages. Perfection. Potatoes 2 ways. The truffle mash a delicate dance of decadence and delight. Roasted spuds golden brown and crispy outside, soft and supple inside. The stuffing more like a succulent but subdued morsel of hash browns. The lamb was tender and savory and sensual. It all paired nicely with the house red.
I sat outside to smoke a cigar and one of those Indian scammers came up and sat at my table. Here’s the scam. He opens his shirt and shows you a plastic packet with blood in it. He says he needs 3,000 baht to get it changed at the hospital. This is the 3rd guy who’s run this scam on me in the same year. I hand him 500b and wish him luck. It’s a small price to get him to leave. He doesn’t leave. He says “No. 3,000.” I tell him it’s all the cash I have on me, which is true. There’s a moment of tension where he looks like he might try to choke me for the rest. Then he says thank you and runs off. And here’s the thing–if I’m being scammed by someone who is clearly worse-off than me, if they’re not a dick about it I feel like allowing them to scam me a little bit is similar to charity. But there’s no room for greed, or rudeness, or 1st Worlders. Like anytime a fucking farang asks for money because he spent his whole trust fund on Phi Phi weed and bar girls, I tell him to fuck right off. After that fantastic meal I stumbled home, fell asleep, woke up at 22.00 and watched YouTube till 04.00.
Speaking of 22.00, that’s when I hit the Pong the following night, after a long visit from my oldest conc. She’s 30 and I’ve known her since she was 18. It took 3 years of coaxing to finally reel her in, but she’s refused to leave the hook ever since. She showed up 3 hours late due to torrential rain. After I finished off, she stuck around, chatting. She showed me her latest back tattoo touchups, and asked me to remind her where we first found each other. I told her it was Lust, a gone gogo that used to be where Radio City is now. After that, she moved to Electric Blue and we’ve been inseparable since then. Once she bailed, I scooted through the rain to the K1 terrace. The showers didn’t deter the Night Market shoppers but it put a dent in the punter set. Inside King’s 1, few customers watched a sparsely populated stage. Some exXXXers and Pagoda girls shouted my name as I sat down, and wai’d while their customers scowled.
Every day, the lineup in New2 gets slightly hotter, like a girl doing pilates daily, or Michelangelo slowly chipping away at a marble slab. On each visit they’re more refined, defined, and sculpted. Not everyone, of course. There’s always a contingent of chunkers. But most of the time my eye doesn’t even see them. They’re just fleshy blobs in my periphery. There were no familiars (“familiar”: noun. In gogo parlance, it’s a girl who knows you but is one whom you don’t bang, copyright BKK7) in either New2 or K Corner.
Monday is the new low day in Patpong–even lower than Sunday. It looks like all the first stringers have figured out that clocking in on a Monday is a waste of time. They’re all off somewhere else, either moonlighting in Nana or just clubbing with friends. There were two perfect 10s in the Corner whom I’d never seen before. They both got scooped up by a couple of Fipons (fat Nipons). Only Virgin had girls on the clock who I’m actively chasing. One’s a skinny little thing who wants nothing to do with me. I know her pattern already. She’ll change her mind in a few months, right about when she’s put on too much weight and I’ve turned my eye to a younger, thinner version of her. The other clearly took too much yaba. I knew by her two-handed grip on two poles while staring at the floor.
At midweek, a trio of new deadsexies started work at King’s 1. I struck up a convo with one after ditching Offy, who hung on like a barnacle. The newbie is 19, from Bang Kae, and speaks zero English. I offered to teach her in exchange for BJs and she laughed the laugh of pure innocence like only a Thai girl can. She asked if I’d come see her again and I told her I Pong every night. She gave me her Line and said, “I’ve never gone with a farang.” At that moment, I decided to induct her into the redlight life. As I reeled her in I thought to myself, Why are you snagging this girl? You don’t have room in your harem. It’s a 2-part reason. First, she’s superhot. Second, I need to know I can still pull.
Then I skipped to New2 where no one took my drink order. The staff just wai’d and took off. I waited to see what they’d bring me. No surprise, it was a SML. The same thing happened at Virgin. The barmaids don’t ask me what I want. They just bring whatever. In there, it’s usually it’s a Heineken. Occasionally it’s a vodka soda. In the loo I ran into a longtime galpal who gives me something I like to call “drip envy.” This is because she’s smoking hot, but has an STD. So as much as I want to nail her, I can’t. And yet, when dudes pull her over for a ladydrink or a barfine, I get jealous. It’s a strange, Scylla-Charybdis kind of situation.
One random day last week I got off the couch, brushed my teeth, took a shower, got dressed and went out for a single purpose: to drink a pint of German beer because a photo of one passed through my Facebook feed, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. It manifested as a Weihenstephaner 1516 Kellerbier that quenched me down to my bone marrow. The watering hole was G’s German of course, on Silom Soi 4. I also had the gorgonzola burger and a glass of cabernet. After that it was time for some bad decisions, so I schlepped through Soi Thaniya just to walk off the food and was accosted by a former Patpong gogo hostess who tried to coax me upstairs for karaoke. I insisted it was verboten as I’m a mere round eye and not welcome in the Nipon venues. That’s when a genteel Japanese fellow assured me it was OK. I guess when business is slow, racism takes a backseat. I promised I’d circle back and skedaddled, arriving in the Pong too early. The kings 1 staff were happy to serve me, though, so I pulled up on the terrace and let the weight of the world radiate from me like steam from a dumpling.
The short bald Cheap Charlie has returned to the Pong after a 2-month absence. He did his usual shtick of buying one beer in King’s 1 and then carrying it into the other 2 King’s gogos. His second strategy is to befriend the toilet attendants and cashiers so when he walks into a place, it looks like he’s popular. The dancers avoid him like the plague.
I have nothing against guys who’re losers in their home country and come here to live like kings. That’s the Thailand dream. And I don’t begrudge dudes who’re too poor to hit the redlight every night. But if you’re poor, and a creep, and a douchebag, and a predator, and a cheapskate, maybe you should just stay home.
On Friday I tried and failed again to get to Soi Cowboy. This time I was waylaid by a long delay inside Session, the cigar shop at Silom Complex. They had a bunch of Drew Estate reorders plus new Cubans. I couldn’t decide what to buy and when I finally dropped 100 bucks on sticks, I was too famished and tired to head all the way to Sukhumvit. So I slid into Derby King for rad na gai and then King’d for a stogie. But first I ran over to G’s hoping to buy a Firestone Nitro Milk Stout to go, so I could make a black nyet’ro to pair with my DE Tabak Especial. For the uninitiated, that’s a black russian topped off with dark beer, and it’s delicious. But Guido was out of the Nitro so I had to settle for a Chiang Mai Winter Cacao Stout. Mix that with a b ruskie and you have what I call a Thai’Ivan Cacaonov. It’s not as smooth as a black nyet’ro but it gets the job done. A scraggly farang tried to rock up on a terrace table with a bottle of Chang already in hand and the staff waved him off. He noticed my can of craft beer and asked, “Why does he get to sit there?” apparently not taking note of my cocktail. “Because he is Seven,” was the bouncers reply.
Newhotties continue to stream into New2. The sight of the stage is a revelation. I’ve noticed that many of the old K2 girls–who were at the top of the pecking order at the old location–have quit. The competition from new hot 10s is too much for them now. I daresay New2 has the best lineup of hotskinnies in the whole of Patpong, and possibly Bangkok at large.
Then I stumbled to Virgin where two legendary Patpong punters were sat entertaining Yok, as it was her birthday. I don’t want to say their names in case they desire anonymity but I’ll say that one used to moonlight as a tour guide at the now-closed Patpong Museum and the other is a longtime photographer of gogo dancers and their tattoos.
After one vodka soda, I popped outside to swig a SoCo and smoke a few mini Partagas. I found an empty high top, and within seconds was surrounded by five off-duty dancers who regard me as one of the gang, at this point. One of them asked what I was smoking so I handed her a mini cig. She smelled it, lit it, and smoked it. I hadn’t intended to gift her one of my expensive minis, but there you go. Then a girl from K1 who I’m trying to reel in messaged to say “Come buy me a drink” so I scampered back there. The gogo was in a state of sexual pandemonium. I’ve used this analogy before but it fits. The King’s bars in late hours resembles the bar in “From Dusk till Dawn,” just before the lasses all turn into vampires.
On Saturday I finally made it out to Soi Cowboy, after a day of laying around my apartment and a quick visit from my number 1 conc. When she left, I realized I hadn’t eaten anything all day. So I motorBolted to Soi 23 and into Scruffy Murphy’s for a Kilkenny pint for a ball-busting 350b and club sandwich for 325. The joint was rammed with white middle-aged couples and groups, I surmised to watch the fuckin’ Olympics. They had on pole vaulting, horse jumping, golf and clam soccer. The hairs on the back of my next stood up at being in proximity to so many twankers (twats n wankers, copyright BKK7). I tried not to look uncomfortable. It helped that Keane was playing on the jukebox. The sandwich was a monster: a fat chicken breast, double tomato, lots of bacon. I departed Scruffy’s in pissing down rain and made a beeline for The Dollhouse. After one draft inside I popped out to a very crowded terrace, thanks to the relentless rain, and sparked up a DE Acid Blondie and double SoCo. Dennis arrived, shaking off a sheen of water, and we hung out and watched the pelting torrent worsen. As if to mock me. Travis’ “Why Does it Always Rain on Me” played in my earbuds.
The rain put a literal damper on my Cowboy visit but I tried to make the best of it. I waded over to Shark, where the party was off the chain. Dudes were chucking ping pong balls and the women were wild. The place was in a state, with the ladydrink hunger at a fever pitch. Two buxom clungebrokers tried the tourist treatment on Seven. Thats where the she-devil sits down, holds out her hand to shake yours, and the barmaid runs up to grab your bin and add a LD to it. It all ended in failure as I dodged them hussies like Neo in the Matrix. Some girl shouted my name from the stage. “Seven! You member me name?” I shook my head. “Before I work at bla-bla-bla.” I shook my head again. She pretended to be upset. I devoted most of my attention to the TV screen which was showing clamnastics from Paris. Nobody onstage or off fit the mould of someone I’d take home. 180b for a SML.
Then I went to Crazy House, a gogo I hate, just to check up on things. There were lots of hot girls–more than anywhere else on Soi Cowboy–but they still didn’t hold a candle to the 3 King’s lineups in Patpong. 180b for a SML and the girl actually brought me my change for a change. I sipped half my beer and then hightailed it to the Pong, where I belong. As I exited Crazy House, someone seated near the stage grabbed my arm. ‘Twas a King’s Corner girl, sitting with her barfine. She smiled and wai’d as her customer gave me dagger eyes. There were no taxis so I hopped a motorbike and slogged back in the pouring rain. That’s how desperately I wanted to be back in the best redlight in Bangkok. I went to Virgin first, where the aircon nearly froze me to death and where two newskinnies caught my attention. Then I found a seat in k1 and the boss bought me a beer. The place was a zoo. A middle-aged Japanese business man who clearly had been there before sat down, and two dancers scurried over to join him for several ladydrinks. About 10 minutes later, three more Japanese dudes entered and took the row of seats in front of him. When they saw him, they shouted excitedly, waving and laughing like a surprise family reunion. Then it was hugs all around, even for the girls. That’s the kind of wholesome gogo interaction I like to see. The redlight turns strangers into friends and bedfellows. That’s when two girls began competing for my attention and ladydrink money. One of them was Offy. Luckily, a portly Japanese fellow had already taken a keen interest in her, and he attempted to lure her away from me. I happily obliged. Then I popped outside for a mini Partagas. By then I was so hammered I couldn’t continue. Luckily there was a break in the rain, and I hustled home.
In other news, I can always tell when the Thai economy takes a bad turn, because former and long-lost concubines suddenly remember me. This week, four old harem girls who’d dropped off the radar re-friended me on Facebook and sent out feelers on Line, trying to get at this old monger’s money. I ignored all but the hottest one, since I’d been foraging for new clunge myself for the past month or so. In fact, after purging my harem in June, I’m now back to 6 first-stringers and 4 alternates. There’s no way my old, dilapidated anatomy (dilapomy for short, copyright BKK7) can keep up with so many horny youngsters. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. It’s a Thailand problem. My friends back in the US have problems like how to feed their family and keep a roof over their heads in a runaway recession, or how to stay with a wife who does nothing but complain and spend money. I get it. I don’t have real problems.
A couple of odd events this week: I got the hungry eye from a tourist. She was a 30something tan, blonde-haired blue-eyed bombshell pushing a pram. No2, I’d rather have an enema that get with a middle-aged white woman, bit still. It was nice to be noticed. Then later that same night, 2 white fatties tried to chit chat outside k1. They asked how long I’d been in Thailand and where I was heading after this. I said, “I’m staying here.” They looked confused. “I’m visiting my dancer friends. I won’t leave Patpong.” I suggested they get a taxi to Suk soi 11 and they waddled off to pig out in the food court.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is a photo album from The Strip’s final year, before the cops closed it. The bar has since reopened under a new name. 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 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: Remember when you were a teenager and you kept a condom in your wallet, regardless of how small the chances were that you’d ever use it? Well, the 2024 Bangkok monger version of that is to keep a Kamagra or Cialis tablet in the side pocket of your cargo shorts. You’ll likely never need it, but if the chance magically arises while you’re out and about (or in my case, when you’ve already hammered someone that day but another conc messages to say she’s on her way over), you want to be prepared to perform.
