What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession.
After nearly two weeks in Vietnam, I’m happy to say that, while it was a fun excursion, I’m back where I belong, haunting the sois of Patpong. Being retired has allowed me to take some fun trips over the past months to California, Phuket, Krabi, Cambodia, and now Nha Trang, and I’ve plans to take more short jaunts around the region, because why not? But now matter where I wander or how long I stay away, The Pong will always be my home. Even when the Patpong family eventually sells it and it’s mowed down to make room for condominiums (the family heir already has the blueprints written up), I’ll still wander around it, reliving memories of the best redlight in Bangkok. Additionally, I briefly skipped over to Cowboy, but more on that later.
Back in Patpong after 2 weeks, stop number 1 was for gai medmamuang in Derby King. Tourist traffic in the night market was noticeably down, signaling September/October as BKK’s only low season this year. Although don’t quote me, because it had also just pissed down for several hours.
The tables outside K1 were full-up, and I was about to walk on when a chubby Sino crushed out his thin, effeminate cigarette and dove inside. I took his spot, ordered a double Chivas and lit up one of a dozen Cubans I picked up from the duty free in the Nha Trang airport. Two dancers in black bikinis and heels stepped out for a smoke and I realized it was the first scantily clad females I’d seen in 2 weeks. The sight of unabashed half-naked sex kittens lounging nonchalantly on a crowded soi is as inspiring as it is titillating. It is at once a sign of female empowerment and a lascivious guilty pleasure.
Regarding the crowd, about 70% of the foreigners were Sinos and Nipons drinking, smoking, and barfining like the world was ending. The other 30% were mainly trios and groups of old white ladies. My ilk–the aging monger who wallows in the redlight like a pig in shit–were sparse. There was a gaggle of new hussies in King’s 1, and by new I mean new to King’s. They were clearly seasoned clunge-slingers from other gogos. It’s a common thing in the King’s these days–girls who’re unhappy with their take-home at other venues eventually find themselves at one of King’s juggernaut bars. And it’s not strictly about economics. The Thai-owned, Thai-run cartel takes good care of their staff.
New2 aka new King’s 2 also had double the number of chicks, some new, some veterans. An old galpal from Kiss Bar attacked me. “Seven, you post a photo of me from 2018 on your Twitter. Can you please delete? I’m getting too much unwanted attention.” If she wasn’t such a hot piece of ass I wouldn’t oblige but she was an adequate good-time girl for me back in the day, so I said I would. Then a tall skinny started pointing at me from the stage. I didn’t recognize her but I knew it’d lead to a drink pilfering if I stuck around so I went to pay, but just then the girl who has essentially claimed me in there bid farewell to the dude she was sat with and veritably leapt over a row of seats to stop me from leaving. I’ve got this hottie wrapped around my finger–literally. From the day I first entered the Bangkok gogo all those years ago, I employed the Donald Trump strategy: grab ‘em by the pussy. And goddam if it doesn’t work like a charm. This New2 girl can’t get enough of my 2-finger minge massage. The same is true of a galpal in K1, where the minute she sits down she grabs my hand and places it in her crotch.
Then I scooted to Virgin where I’m now universally known as the guy who buys candy for the staff. A lone Asian female customer sat pounding beers and bopping along to the music. I tried to suss out why she was there but came up empty. When she paid her bin, the turned and handed a male staffer a 10 baht coin as a tip. It might’ve been the weirdest thing I’ve seen in a gogo bar to date. Yok came to sit with me per usual. There was a shit-ton of girls on the clock and the place was rocking with a slew of customers. But Yok leaned over and said “It’s quiet.” I guess ‘quiet’ is in the eye of the gogobeholder. If she doesn’t personally have a customer, it’s fucking quiet.
I thought of a new million-dollar business: gogo bars pay me to kidnap their fattest girls, take them to an island, and force them to eat fruit and do Tae Bo for a month so they slim back down. It’s tragic how many superhot dancers have succumbed to the KFC. When I look at Nat, I actually get choked up remembering how smoking hot she used to be. Now she looks like something someone’d serve up at Thanksgiving. Just put an apple in hour mouth and put her on a platter. Though who are we kidding, she wouldn’t be caught dead eating an apple.
One evening I set out t’Pong around half 8, and as my feet hit the street a huge gust of wind blew plastic bags and leaves all the way down the block. Anyone who’s lived here long enough knows, that means rain’s acomin’. I hustled to the K1 terrace and arrived just as the first fat cold drops began to fall. For the next hour, the Night Market got soaked by a fierce deluge. They’re the kind I’ve come to love here in TLOS, whether from my balcony or a gogo terrace. This might just be in my head but the hearty rains seem to rinse the redlight clean. If only it could do the same for the tourists.
I’m trying to cut my beer consumption by 90%. I’m not sure if it’s age or what, but getting bloated nightly and waking up at 2 and 4 am to piss isn’t fun. But occasionally, I don’t time my double Chivas with the end of my cigar and I have to supplement with a glass of draft. I’m off Leo, and every other Thai cheap brew, and going exclusively for Heineys as they’re non-GMO.
I saw a lot of Asian tourists returning to King’s with their previous night’s barfines. I admire the loyalty, of both monger and maiden, for bringing his wallet back for more spending. One dude was waiting there for his girl to show up for work. When she walked in, he fined her again. She didn’t even need to change into lingerie. In and out in seconds flat.
In New2 I was again molested by a new girl who has more or less imprinted on me, like a sexy werewolf. She insists on speaking English because she thinks she’s good at it. I don’t have the heart to tell her she’s atrocious. So she speaks to me in bad English and I reply in Thai. Every time I go in there. I see new hotties. That joint is having a growth spurt.
In virgin I’m so accustomed to the girls I can identify a pole kitty from behind, either by the shape of her ass or the way she dances. To the untrained eye, they’re all doing the skytrain shuffle. But every gogo dancer’s lazy jig is like a fingerprint. Each one has its subtle idiosyncrasies. As I got up to leave, I saw a tubby American making moves on a barmaid. This is a common flex with dudes who don’t feel adequate enough to snag a real sex kitten. The bar staff are low-hanging fruit. What set this particular lass apart was, she’s the one and only ladyboy working in the joint. And here’s the thing: she’s the most convincing LB I’ve ever come across in Thailand, so you can’t blame a novice for not knowing. I debated about telling him what kind of tree he was barking up, but in the end, I didn’t get involved. That’s a surprise he’ll just have to work through on his own.
On a random night I decided for no particular reason to hop off the couch at half 9 and do a Pong. The night was more than sultry (shoutout “Throw Mama from the Train”). It was blistering. Google said it was 83 degrees in American temperature but with the humidity “felt like” 92. Souxsie Sioux wrote a song about that exact temperature and its effect on the psyche. I recommend giving it a listen.
Thanks to the swampiness, I skipped the K1 terrace and went straight to the gogo with the best aircon: Virgin. But even their arctic machines barely made a difference. I only saw a couple familiar faces, so bailed after one cocktail. The Patpong Cafe, two doors down from Virgin and a redlight staple for decades, has been sold and as of Friday has reopened as a gay host bar called Dragon and Koi, which is a crippling blow to the hetero side of soi 2. Here’s hoping it’s geographically too far away from the rest of the gay stuff and will close soon. I support the gays, but keep your peanut butter out of my chocolate, if you know what I mean, shoutout 1980s Reese’s TV ads.
Virgin already has Halloween decor up, following a global trend of making the holiday a month-long party. It turns out the world loves all things horror and macabre, and this month is their excuse to hang their fucking jackolantern balls out for 31 days instead of just one. You’ll never see anything similar for Valentine’s or St Patrick’s Day. But like Gay Pride month, the night Satan pulls his butthole out is now a four-week long affair.
Outside K1, a Thai hostess was trying to sell a trio of old farang on soju. She kept saying “It Japanese whiskey! Very goood.” Wrong in both counts, lady, but I admire the hustle. One old fogey bought her a drink. “I like you,” she said, “Good heart.” What? He replied. “Good heart, good heart, good heart.” ….What? Jesus, I’m proud of you for getting on the plane but for fuck’s sake, put that grey matter to work, buddy. I had my customary Cuban and Chivas plus tiny Heiney combo, which relaxes all the muscles in my back and bastes my brain in a warm butter glaze. The weekend tourist throngs were back strong in Patpong. I guess it’s not low season after all.
I think my favorite Night Market passerby is the farang tween who looks in the doorway of a gogo and gets scarred for life. My 2nd favorite is the gogo hottie returning to the bar after a shorttime liaison. She’s flush with cash and has the demeanor of a gal who has rent and diaper money in-pocket, and so whatever else she earns on the night is for manicures and hair coloring. She is the personification of delight.
I popped into K1 for the first time in a few days and grabbed a spot stageside. It’d been a while since I just sat in that gogo and admired the talent. There was lots of new clunge mixed in with the familiars. And I should explain my use of that word. In vampire lore, familiars are unturned humans who do the bidding of their bloodsucking masters. In gogo terms, it’s girls who I personally wouldn’t bang, but who know the ones I do/did, and who make the scene easier to handle by not being in the fuckable column, but who still take the random slap on the ass or fist-bump. In any given gogo, I have around 10 familiars.
In New2 aka King’s 2 I was accosted by four girls who’d migrated from other gogos. It was all come-hither stares and “You leemembah me?” Yes, yes, I leemembah you. One long lanky gal zeroed in like a bird dog an wouldn’t stop staring. I wanted to convey to her that she was fishing in the wrong pond but no amount of ignoring her worked. I don’t blame her game. If I was a tourist, I probably would’ve barfined and later married her. But I’m a grizzled, jaded, pussy-sated harem-keeper. She has no chance.
On my trip to Cowboy last week, I started with a quick bite in Gaudi. I had croquetes two ways: roast chicken and Ibirico ham plus eggplant and goat cheese. Both were amazing. Then sauteed mushrooms and garlic with dipping bread (fantastic), all paired with a glass of Marques de Caceres verdejo. A fat bald farang in a yellow Adidas vest rocked up and promptly asked that the rotating fan, which was busy cooling down everyone on the patio, be turned and set directly on him. The server caught my eye and I smiled. She told the doucher that the fan couldn’t be reset, then looked back at me and gave an eye roll. He ate as fast as he could, then banged on the window to get the checkbin. He spoke broken English so he wasn’t a yank or a brit, and sported a pair of those stupid-looking Eurotrainers an American wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. In the UK, they’re a common sight in the chav community, but this guy was either Slavic or former iron curtain.
After VAT and service charge, my bill was north of 1,000b. That’s obscene, even for Gaudi. But if I don’t feel like I’m living, then I’m dying. So splurge I did. Then I committed the sin of hitting the Dollhouse, apologies to Dennis who is happily relocated now. I just wanted to see what the vibe was like without him. It was, in a word, on autopilot. The drinks were served, and the girls danced. In that way, it was like so many other gogos in Thailand. But the “it” factor was missing, and I suppose that’s what Dennis brought to the place. I spotted a trio of newhotties and some new bolt-on tits. I of course stayed for the rotation, and a few of the new girls put the tourist hardsell on me. Booze prices are up across the board. One drink was sufficient for me.
But it was too soon for Rainbow, where half the girls roll in an hour late. I was on the lookout for Satang and Bee–who’s been off the pole for months due to an unfortunate pregnancy. I wanted to see how much of her hotness was retained, or if the kid had stretched her out in all the wrong places. God bless the gals who pop out a youngin’ and are none the worse for wear. Not that I object to a few scars. But some get really fucked over, for some reason. My 3rd favorite conc from Electric Blue got permanently mangled by having just one kid.
Cowboy seemed uncharacteristically quiet on the night, as if low season were a real thing there. The gogos I hit were mostly empty. According to my Nana sources, they’re “gearing up for high season” which could mean that things are slow now. Maybe the only redlight that doesn’t experience low season is Patpong. Having said that, the foot traffic did increase on Cowboy after 22.00. But that’s a late pick-up time for that redlight.
After spending an hour in Rainbow and not seeing any of my galpals, I admired the newskinnies in their “good” rotation and bailed. 10 years ago I could’ve done 6 gogos on Cowboy followed by a full session onPong. These days, I can barely survive five bars on a night. I managed to squeeze in one more on Cowboy and that was Long Gun. They were filled to capacity, and why not, what with half the stage time taken up by crazed choreographed sex shows? Several husky girls attempted the hardsell and I sent them all away. They’re highballing their booze–195 for a vodka soda. Once I’d polished off the cocktail I motaxi’d t’Pong. Nothing reminds you of the fragility of life like a motorbike ride with a driver on yaba. You’re living a high-speed nightmare, meanwhile he’s an anime character in his own personal video game.
While in Nha Trang I bought a box of what I thought were 20 mini Montecristos. It turned out to be three stubby fat cigars that smoked like an absolute dream. I had the first one outside K1. A dancer came and sat with me, saying “Seven you remember me? From The Strip, na.” I had no recollection but pretended to anyway. In order to avoid the previous night’s mistake of running out of whiskey before the cigar went out, I ordered a small Heiney. In all my youth whilst drinking in the bars and clubs of LA and Vegas I never once had a Heineken. It wasn’t until I moved to Colchester UK in the mid-2000s that I started up downing the stuff like hotcakes. Since then, every time I take a sip I’m transported back in time to a pub near my apartment in Essex where I’d go every day after work to self-medicate with Heiney pints. It’s also where I met my one and only English girlfriend. She was a barmaid, and I seduced her in classic fashion. In fact, I have Heiney pints to thank for the liquid courage it took to talk to that beautiful girl, who is now the lead singer of a popular Europop band. I’m omitting their name at her request, because as she put it, I broke her heart and ruined her life. I must disagree, since she married the drummer of same said band. I prefer to think I drove her into the arms of her true love.
As I sat there lost in nostalgia, a cockroach dropped from above onto the back of my neck like fucking Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. I knew it was a roach because I’ve been dropped-on by many creatures in Thailand, including geckos and snakes. Some people would lose their shit over it, but I just grabbed him and put him on the ground. Before my 14 years in TLOS, that would’ve freaked me the fuck out. Not anymore, brother. It’s just part of the deal. And you locals know what I mean.
In other news, Shitbag Bob—the mentally retarded blind dickhead who runs social media for a few gogos in town—got ahold of the security cam clip of me smacking him in Nana Plaza and has been showing it around. This is what the Millennials call a “self-own,” and Shitbag is a master of it. Everyone he’s played it for has had the same reaction: first they say, “That’s what you’re mad about? He barely touched you,” followed by, “What Nana twat banned Seven for that?” The answer is, not one of the bigwigs. They don’t even know I exist. When I think of that pathetic pussy watching the video over and over before bed while grinding his teeth, tears streaming down his drooping albino jowls, I can’t help but feel a bit sorry for him. Then I remember that, on top of being a stupid, no-talent wad of wet anal discharge, he’s also devoid of a single positive human attribute, and nearly everyone in Bangkok despises him. And then I don’t feel so bad.
Speaking of Nana, there are a few highlights. Dennis has settled in at Lollipop and brought with him his warmth, rapport, and optimism, all of which are contagious. Joey D is making moves in Angelwitch, with daily house-pour specials, happy hour beers Monday to Wednesday, new “spooky” themed shows for October, and upgrades to the lighting and sound system, plus they hired a new song spinner: The Batman, aka DJ JiB.
Some Patpong news: VirginX–the space that used to be Dok Bar, next door to Virgin–will open this month on the 15th. I also heard an awful rumor from a very unreliable source that Black Pagoda will reopen as a gay bar. Take that with a grain of salt.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is an album from Kiss Bar between 2018 and 2020. The link can be found here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-crazy-times-at-kiss-bar/
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: For any novice redlight tourist or wannabe pimp daddy, allow me to explain the proper way to grab a pussy. Your first dive in should be whole-handed. Slip all four fingers gently over her minge like you’re guarding it from the leering eyes of perverts. It’s a move she’s used to making herself, and when you do it, she’ll feel simultaneously protected and endeared to you. Once she’s acclimated to your hand in her crotch, you can rotate your middle finger over her ladybean to gauge how sensitive she is. If she jumps out of her seat, go back to the four-finger guard. If she endures the finger wiggle, you’re free to increase the intensity until she has to force herself to pull away. Repeat as needed, but from that moment on, you’re on her shaglist. The next step is the two-finger rhythm massage, but I can’t give away all my secrets. You’ll have to figure that one out yourself. One final caveat: never get rough, and never go in hard. Always treat her cooter like a tiny, breakable piece of art. It’s foolproof.
