Redlight Diary 8.10.23: Soft Colonialism in Pattaya

What’s up reader, how’s your late-year rainy season going? Are you staying dry? If you’re a punter/monger, then I bet the answer is ‘no.’ In BKK, it’s rained every night in a row for a month straight. I finally got sick of it and bailed to Pattaya on Thursday. Aside from a 15-minute drizzle, the weekend’s been rain-free, thank Buddha. But the front end of the week was loaded with goddam rain, causing mild floods in Patpong and NanaP.

My streak of failing to stay out of the redlight on a Sunday continued last week, mainly because it was the first night in nearly a month when it wasn’t pouring by 19.00 so I took a chance and had a leisurely stroll t’Pong. On entering the night market I saw what looked like an entire farang family handing over the entrance fee to the ping pong show. On closer inspection it was three couples that looked incestuously alike, probably because they were all Scandinavian. How I wished I could be there when they exited after the show. What a photo of stunned, sickened faces that would make.

The K1 girls donned the uniform common to King’s Corner:  red lingerie. I was surrounded by gawking, giggling Japanese. As I passively scanned the room for Offy (I skipped buying her a drink the night before and felt I owed her one), I spied only a few familiar faces. Some girl shouted “Seven, Elevennn!” from the stage. Then I slid through the side door into K2 where the chickies were also decked-out in red.

It looks to me like the King’s Group is conducting some kind of VIP-style tour for groups from Japan and China, because for the 2nd week in a row, a Thai guide brought in a crew of shy Asians who were set up with a bottle and a respectful hello from the K1 manager. If that’s what they’re doing, it’s not a bad business strategy, especially for some vanilla tourists who might want to experience the excitement of Patpong without the danger.

No matter what the world throws at the King’s company, they always weather the storm. And thank Buddha for that. Without them, Patpong would’ve been razed to a car park by now. I remember when they were ready to pack it in. This was 6 months into the scamdemic travel ban and they were struggling to keep up the rent on various venues. In the end, only Twilo bit the dust.

In a wild twist that no one saw coming, the K Corner girls wore black and white…all except one girl who obviously didn’t get the Line group message. She was in red. Whilst walking from K2 t’Corner a gust of wind kicked up, and in Thailand that’s usually a sign that it’s about to piss down. Sure enough, as I finished my Corner cocktail and stepped out, it began to rain. I tried to hustle to Pink Panther but only got as far as Shenanigan’s before the sky split open like a pinata. One upside to getting stuck at Shagz: the three couples from the ping pong show earlier showed up, looking as shellshocked as they should after what they must’ve witnessed. There was a momentary kerfuffle when I lit up a cigarillo. Three barmaids rushed over and told me to put it out. “No gancha, no gancha,” they kept saying. I told them in Thai that it was tobacco, not cannabis. They didn’t believe me and wouldn’t let it go until I showed them the Montecristo label on the box.

The second the rain slowed I bolted to Panther, which was mostly-empty inside, but within a couple minutes the place filled up with the slew of other dudes who, like me, got trapped midway t’Pink. Out of 30 eventual customers, I was one of only two farang which essentially meant I was invisible to all but a couple of former harem girls and the manager, who shakes my hand on every visit.

From there I hit Bada Bing, where one dude had six girls sitting around him like a human donut. I got a few flirty smiles from girls onstage but it wasn’t enough to keep me there, and I headed home. One small mercy offered to me in the redlight—at least in Bangkok—is folks like ping pong barkers, most dancers, and wandering salespeople more or less leave me alone. That’s not the case in Pattaya.

On Monday my harem girl kept me too long and I couldn’t monger.

After wandering down the Pong like a wet soi dog on Tuesday, I tuktuk’d t’Nana where practically no one came to work, thanks to the rain. In stark contrast to the reopening party the week before, Essence had three dancers and no customers. I blame the weather, though 250b for a black russian won’t help fill the seats. I flitted down to Twister to say hi to Oil who curled up in my lap trying to get warm. Her mum’s back in hospital and the prognosis ain’t good. I also hung with Joey D in Angelwitch for a spell. The walkways of all three levels of NanaP were rammed with Japanese-Chinese-Koreans all shoving and shuffling along, peeking in doorways and hemming/hawing about which bar with 1/3 their roster they should hit up. I want to feel sorry for these dudes, who made the choice to come here during the worst spate of weather in years, but I just can’t muster it. The backlash against the scamdemic lockdown has manifested as an absolute Asian invasion here in Thailand, a trend which continued in Ptown, but more on that later.

On Wednesday I rocked up to Hyde & Seek on the 9th floor of Silom Edge. Initially I tried to try #throwback or Atmos, but the former didn’t sell wine and the latter didn’t allow smoking…on their outdoor terrace. Why the fuck do you even exist then? So I slid into H&S for their cold cuts platter and cheese platter. On the menu, they offer a meat plate for 450, a cheese plate for 400, or a mixed plate for 655, but the mix plate is missing one meat and two cheeses that are included with the other two, so I ordered the meat-only and the cheese-only, and made the mistake of trying to explain to the waitress why I didn’t choose the mix plate. That confused the fuck out of her. We tried to hash it out in English but quickly turned to Thai, and after that I thought everything was copacetic. But a moment later the manager appeared and asked, “Which two meats you don’t want?” So I went through it again, wondering what would appear at the table. In the end, they got it right, and what they set before me was a meaty-cheesy miracle: Iberico and Parma ham, chorizo rioja, brie, reblochon, gorgonzola, parmesan, blueberries, strawberries, walnuts, honey. I paired it with a glass of sparkling and a cab/shiraz/merlot blend. Normally I fuck up the food-wine-cigar combo but this time everything was perfect. I timed the whole affair so I’d have red wine left over to finish the stogie and the last swallow of champagne to put a coda on the quartet of meat, cheese, wine, tobacco, and the sweeping view of Lumpini Park in the background. And as luck would have it, ‘twas happy hour, so one of my glasses of booze was gratis.

 On Thursday I Grabbed t’Pattaya and went straight to Cigarista for a couple of H Uppmans and a Partagas. Then a beeline for Soi 6 and Slice pizza for one BBQ chicken and one krapow. Both were on point per usual. The 6 was an even bigger clusterfuck than previous visits, at least to this weary wang wielder. The girls I spoke to said there were too many girls for the amount of customers. In other words, competition among the chickies is high. And more than one lass mentioned there were “too many” Japanese/Chinese/Koreans and not enough farang. What I noticed immediately was the presence of newhotskinnies. The 6 is no longer exclusive to chubsters.

The NightWish Group, who own 24 bars on the soi, have hired a roving band of Thai security personnel. I guess not all the tourists of 2023 act right. A few bars remain shut post-scamdemic, while a few new ones have sprung up. One is called “Boofies.” Shame about the name.

I sat down with a girl in Candy Bar who turned into a total chatterbox once she realized I spoke Thai. She said she loves farang. I asked how she felt about the influx of Japanese. She said they’re OK. I asked if her lack of enthusiasm was due to their small reproductive equipment. She said no, that their junk is actually a good size, and it was the Chinese who were lacking in the trouser area. She made a motion with her hand like sweeping aside a forest of pubic hair, searching for the wang in the weeds.

Do you want to see 80 boobs at one time? It sounds like the start of a joke but that’s XS in a nutshell. They’ve three rotations of 40 girls each who all get their tits out at once. It’s mesmerizing. It’s the gogo equivalent of the South Park episode where Kenny inhales cat spray and hallucinates a “Heavy Metal”esque planet of mammaries.

An American asked the barmaid for a cigarette. She told him to go across the soi to 7-11. Then a tomboy staffer pulled one out from behind her ear and handed it to him. He paid her 200b for it.

Why is it called XS? Is it a play on “excess”? It can’t be because the girls are extra small, though they are comparatively slimmer—and hotter—than other gogos. There were so many hotties, my brain shut down. It happened again in Pin-Up. I tried to count the 10s in there and couldn’t do it. Not every girl was hot, don’t get me wrong. But I saw at least ten 10s before losing track.

Then I popped in to a new gogo on Walking Street. I asked if I could take a photo of their logo, which was on the floor of the bar. They threw a fit, so I’m not going to even mention their name. Which is alright, since every girl in the joint was of the bovine variety.

Peppermint had one skinny girl and a cleverly-priced Chang draft (69b). A crew of Nipon grabbed the VIP couch, ordered three bottles of champagne, and rang the bell. In Peppermint. I wondered why. There are no good chicks in there. That’s like eating caviar next to a back-alley dumpster.

From there, I hit Fahrenheit, which was an absolute zoo. I arrived just behind a group of 10 dudes pluse a separate trio of two guys and a girl. Since I despise tourists, I almost didn’t go in, but the stage was packed and the vibe was upbeat. My galpal Meena, who used to work in Patpong, came over to chill for a bit. She’s constantly effervescent and is a joy to be around. Plus she lets me play with her titties. She was so much fun, I actually stayed for a 2nd drink.

In two of the bars on WS, I noticed the continuing trend of teams of Asian dudes being chaperoned by a Thai redlight guide.

On Ptown Day 2, I lounged around the condo till dinnertime, then popped to Tops in Central for a takeaway set of lasagna, spinach gratin, and buttered carrots with a bottle of Shiraz, and hauled it all back to my balcony to watch the sunset and smoke one of the Cubans. Then I went straight to The 6 again. For years, I’d been tracking a girl who started out her beer bar career at Envy. I missed my chance initially by getting in deep with her friend before laying eyes on her. This was in 2019, and she was one of those girls who starts out on The 6, realizes quickly that she’s too hot for The 6, and graduates to a better-paying gig on Walking Street or somewhere. What I didn’t know was, this hottie couldn’t dance, due to a foot injury, so she was trapped where she was and couldn’t upgrade. This led to some weight-gain over the next four years, as she bounced around a handful of NightWish bars. Most recently, she found a home on the south side of the soi, and despite her new chubbiness, I decided to chat her up. As luck would have it, she was standing right in my path as I entered the bar. I took her by the elbow and we sat together for a good hour. She had an infectious laugh, which I coaxed from her effortlessly and often. She bought me chewing gum and refused to take money for it. Then, as I was about to put my sexy moves on her, she casually mentioned she was on her period. I paid and bailed.

From there I trundled to Soi Boomerang to say hello to my buddy RJ. He’s managing Heaven Above while his real home—Dynamite—is getting a remodel. He asked me about Patpong because he’s an old Electric Blue stalwart. We commiserated of the state of the Pong. It’s gotten so bad that the scumbag photographer who shoots straight-up terrible photos for half the bars in Nana and a couple in Cowboy has started sliming around the Pong looking for work—after years of shitting on Patpong for bloggers like Stickman and Dave the Rave. If that wad of vaginal discharge is sniffing around, it means lots of bullshitting bar owners to convince them to let him in. On average, my posts get triple his traffic, and sometimes get 5 or 10 times as many looks. And I don’t even charge for the privilege.

You know the cunt I mean. His photos are the ones where the girls look intensely uncomfortable. And I wouldn’t pick on him if he weren’t a total asshole in addition to being a bad photographer. He’s one of those rare humans who has not one single redeeming quality. Currently, he’s trying to make inroads at Bada Bing, so get ready for pics of constipated-looking Bing girls. The upside is, he’ll have to stop shitting on Patpog in his blogs/reports to other bloggers.

Every time I come to Pattaya I ask myself, “Why don’t I just stay?” There’s really only one reason: my harem. Those lovely ladies would fall to pieces if I left. They’re completely dependent on my financial support. So until I can ween them off me, I’m stuck with BKK.

In my old age, the closest I can come to an out-of-body experience is to experience two locations simultaneously. This often happens when a song comes through my headphones that takes me back in time, like earlier when I was on Soi 6 and my Mp3 played “The 4th of July” by LA punk band X, a song that was released the summer after I got my driver’s license and two weeks before I lost my virginity. Late the same night, I had a bratwurst at Wursty’s in Tree Town and flashed-back to lunch in the German town of Worms in 1988. My chosen beverage to go with the brat was a pint of Paulaner Weizenbier. The first time I tried it was at a ski lodge in Interlaken, Switzerland. Contrast that snowy winter with the heat of Pattaya and you’ve a recipe for a swath of nostalgia that rivals a drug trip. The last thing I remember before stumbling home was a 3-legged cat. That’s Thailand, baby.

Day 3 began with recording some episodes for my MGThai series on my YouTube channel, mostly to just kill time till 5 pm when Don Pepe Tapas opens. I got green peppers for a Barcelona flashback, truffle bombas, pork mini-tacos, and a cold cut/cheese platter, plus what’s becoming my new go-to: two glasses of wine, one sparkling, one red. The red was a cab-tempranillo blend from Navarra, the sparkling a cava brut from Catalonia, and both were stupendous. The bombas were miraculous, and easily in the top 5 best things I’ve ever tasted, behind my dad’s grilled steak and Screaming Eagle wine. The cold cuts (iberico ham, chorizo, and salchicon) plus Manchego, gerkin, black and green olives, dates, and candied walnuts was pure rapture. The mini-tacos were a revelation, bursting with half a dozen bright, distict flavors—tomato, jalapeno, avocado, cilantro, crema, and of course sweet pork. The whole affair was perfect. 1776b all-in. In LA, it would’ve been triple the price.

Suddenly, the door flew open and 15 screeching Chinese swept into the joint like a tornado. They didn’t speak—they shouted. What ensued was a comedy of language errors as the Thai waitress spoke to them in English while they yelled at each other in Mandarin. They couldn’t read the menu so they just pointed at bottles of wine behind the bar while the waitress asked questions like “You want meat? You want cheese? You want tapas?” as they stared at her uncomprehendingly. I gobbled the last of the iberico, chugged the wine, and GTFO.

My plan was to get back to my balcony in time for another sunset, another Cuban, and the rest of the Shiraz, but heavy overcast skies plus light rain put a damper on that scenario. ‘Twas too early for LK so I schlepped back to The 6. I pulled up to a bar full of hotskinnies and struck up a convo with a PYT who put on the hard-sell for a short-time romp—a thing I never do. But she was so skilled at rubbing my junk, I momentarily lost control of my senses and agreed to go upstairs. Once in the room, my wang lost all enthusiasm. If it had vocal chords it would’ve screamed “Nooooooo!!!” reinforcing what I already knew—that I’m well past the age where banging strangers has any appeal. It’s my harem or bust…a nut…alone.

In the past five years, Pattaya hasn’t been able to finish the roadworks on the Second Road, but a new set of beer bars went up in record time across from View Talay. It’s called Myth Night, and I cruised through before going to sleep. In one place called Lek Lek, I ordered a black russian. At first, the waitress said “No have,” but I could clearly see the Kahlua and vodka on the shelf, so I explained the ingredients and after five minutes they brought me a tiny glass with about half a shot of liquid and a single ice cube. I sent it back, and it returned with one shot’s worth of liquid and two ice cubes for 250b. So it goes without saying, I won’t be back to Myth Night.

At time of posting, I’ve got one more night in Ptown so expect a small report on those events at the start of next Sunday’s blog.

As I said, I found time to barf out a couple new vodcasts on my YouTube channel last week. It’s an ongoing series I’m calling “MGThai,” in response to the MGTOW movement in the West. If you live in Thailand, you probably don’t know that Western women have become undatable. And I have some shit to say about it, hence the new series.

I also found time to post a few more albums of photos taken inside the gogos over the past half decade (Bada Bing, Black Pagoda, and Thigh Bar). They’re for sale, along with some of my artwork 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

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: If you stay at View Talay 6 in Ptown, plan to not leave the room in the daytime. If you do, your trip down the lift will take 10 minutes as it stops at every single floor, and you’ll be squeezed against the wall by a dozen other lifters in a claustrophobic clusterfuck. Lift traffic tapers off around 18.00.

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