What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession.
On Sunday the sib and I checked out of View Talay and 97 minutes later were back in BKK. Goddam, have y’all been breathing this shitty air the whole time? Feckin hell.
I’m not gonna lie, though. Every mile closer to home gave me an ever-increasing sense of peace and completion. I knew it wouldn’t fully bloom until my bro was securely stowed on his flight back to LA. And that was still more than 24 hours away. But my number 1 conc confirmed her appointment for that evening at 19.30 so all was well. She showed up 2 hours late and utterly exhausted me. But it wasn’t enough to deter me from hitting the Pong after she left, where I was welcomed with open arms by beggars, barkers, bar managers, and babes alike. One look at the King’s 1 stage immediately reminded me why I like Bangkok more than Pattaya. The chicks are hotter per capita, and they have a kind of shine to them. Like a chrome chassis fresh off the assembly line, as opposed to Ptown gash, which seems more……rusted. I spotted a few familiar faces as well as some new talent–all 10s. At least, I only noticed the 10s. If there are ugly girls in a gogo, my mind erases them from memory.
After one cocktail in K1 I skipped next door to the newly refurbished King’s 3 (formerly kings 2) which has a new stage and new two-tier seating for double the previous capacity. The name on the wall says “King’s Castle ” which is confusing because there’s already a King’s Castle, two doors down, that used to be called King’s Corner. Basically, the King’s Group now owns four gogos on Patpong Soi 1 and the difference in experience lies with the particular clunge who work in each one. K1 has the years-long veterans alongside fresh newbies. King’s 2 has mostly new gals with some semi-vets mixed in. The old Corner has its own vibe that is, for lack of a better term, perverted. And the new King’s 3/King’s Castle formerly King’s 2 has a crew of good time girls. I tell you what, they fixed the aircon in there. I about froze my nuts off.
Then I popped into King’s Castle—that is to say, the one that used to be called King’s Cor—you know what? I’m just going to keep calling it King’s Corner, to avoid confusion. In K Corner I had a SML and leered nostalgically at that intrepid crew of slit slingers, some of whom I’ve known since the early 20teens. As a team they still look outstanding. Not XS Walking Street outstanding, which is more akin to ogling custom cars in a too-expensive showroom. More like how a lion might look over his pride of both past and future conquests, with a sense of contentment.
Then I avoided the new King’s 2 on the other side of Soi 1 because I stupidly got a new girl on the hook over there who now wants to be the next conc in Seven’s harem, and the truth is I don’t have enough spooge in my balls for an additional gash. I can’t physically do it, so inevitably I’m going to have to disappoint her. But for now I’m just prolonging the anticlimax. Instead I slipped into Virgin and was greeted by 1—familiars, 2—chicks who knew me but I didn’t know them and 3—brand new clams straight from the farm in Isaan.
Then I swung I to VirginX, Virgin’s sister bar that briefly transformed into a ladyboy joint before getting wise and detransitioning back to a straight gogo. Although I definitely spied a post-op trans who passed himself off as a lady. That’s a super weird flex for a joint in the redlight. Most customers want either caffeinated or uncaffeinated. They don’t want coffee that had the caffeine surgically removed and replaced with a coin purse. But she-he was in the second rotation. I didn’t recognize a single girl in rota 1 but there were two 10s and a 9. I’ll say this for the not-so-secret katoey: it adds an element of danger to the evening for any noob tourist looking to wet his wang. Speaking of, the formerman was scooped offstage within seconds by a table of Arabs. I can’t imagine what their breakfast conversation will be like.
And that’s where I rounded out the evening. Everywhere I went it was “Long taahm not see yuuu” and I had to explain my absence over and over. But it’s nice to be missed, even if it’s by concubines, pole kitties, and barmaids. Such is the life of an aging Bangkok whoremonger-slash-redlight rat.
The following day was a long and busy one, and I won’t bore you with the details but suffice to say I saw my brother off back to the US and then headed straight t’Pong. I was famished so I ordered pad thai from the Night Market. In the queue in front of me was a mentally retarded Frenchman who couldn’t order his food right. It sounded like he wanted a pad thai dish but with bahmi noodles. He didn’t communicate, he only jutted his finger at different things. Three times the cook tried to make what he wanted and three times he refused to pay for it. It took four attempts and 10 minutes before I was able to get my fucking food. But it was worth the wait. I wolfed it down and chased it with a Romeo y Julieta and a b ruskie, and suddenly the world started to feel right again. In the space of smoking the stogie, two concs confirmed dates and times for later in the week, and something akin to joy began to spread into my sinews like a treacle.
‘Twas the night of the American douche tourist onPong, though. I’d never seen such a large collection of dweebs, simps, and betas in one place before. Meanwhile the sinos and nipons barfined chicks like it was the end of the world. Suddenly a white pear-shaped gal tumbled out of k1 to the table next to mine with her skinny estrogen-rich boyfriend hurrying after her. They sat down and she gave him a slap, ostensibly for dragging her into the gogo. Then I witnessed a seemingly endless tsunami of dudes in cargo shorts and Hilfiger shirts. After playing nursemaid to my sick brother in Ptown for 3 weeks it had somehow slipped my mind that it’s still high season. My beloved redlight is overrun worse than a US border state.
Then I popped in to K1 and paid the price for being gone so long—literally. The new bar staff don’t know that the two-ladydrink per dancer policy doesn’t fly with me. I wound up buying Offy two cocktails after she pounced on me. I scolded the barmaid before acquiescing. It’s my fault, after all.
It’s a shame Offy is such a chubster. She’s always horny. When I sit with her, she pulls my hand into her crotch and presses my fingers against her minge. The upside to having her as a barchum is, the other girls look on with envy. Should I decide to reel one in, it wouldn’t be hard to leverage Offy’s good will to drive an actual hottie crazy. Speaking of reeling in chicks, afterward I braved King’s 2 knowing I’d be attacked by the conc wannabe in there. But she already had a customer so I was freed up to take in all the new clunge with impunity, of which there’s plenty. Then as I walked out I got a text from said girl accusing me of looking right at her and not recognizing her. By then I already had a drink at K Corner, so while half a dozen girls imitated my signature sitting-dance from the stage I messaged the girl saying I’d come back. Then in K2 she did what she always does–use her perfect body and shaved minge to weasel two drinks out of me plus tips. She plays me like a newb, that hot bodied hussy. I love it.
The next day I had over 2 concs, one at noon and one at 20.00, because it was the only free day for both of them. The first was a BJ—the second required half a kamag and some exercise. Then at 21.00 I lit out for Soi Cowboy after a nearly 3-month hiatus. Stop one was Rainbow to say hi to Bee. She wasn’t around so I scoped the rotas. The first had a new 10. The second was the chunky rota plus one 8. And then I saw a handful of hotties who just walked around. Either there was a 3rd rotation or they hadn’t clocked in yet. I didn’t stick around to find out. Stop two was Dollhouse, purely out of habit. The girls are friendly and festive but it just ain’t the same without Dennis. They did have a new 10 who never set foot onstage because every dude in the joint took turns buying her drinks.
Stop three was 10 seconds in a new joint called Majestics. ‘Twas ladyboys. I practically backflipped out the door. Long Gun had a ping pong show going so I sat on the terrace and puffed a couple of leftover apple-flavored mini cigars from my trip to Nha Trang. They had a couple hotties in their ranks but they seemed to never dance, thanks to constant naughty shows going on inside.
The foot traffic on Cowboy was obscene. I couldn’t believe how many grumpy white chicks traipsed up and down the alley with male companions who yearned but didn’t dare to enter a gogo. For decades I’ve maintained that 90% of the global population are brain dead retards. It dawned on me sitting there on Soi Cowboy that roughly the same percentage are what could be called goobers, or losers, or dorks, or twats. And I know the adage that what’s cool in one country may not be what’s cool in another. But a dweeb is a dweeb in any culture. Because being cool begins with self-awareness and, ironically, a lack of concern for being cool. Combine that with good taste, intelligence, experience, and temet nosce and you’re on the road to cool. 90%, nay I’d say 95% of the wretched masses have no hope of being anything but a doucher. And look, I’m not saying that it’s bad to be one. For sure, being kind is a far better quality than being hip. I’m just pointing out that the world is full to the rim with schmucks. Take it as you like. Thankfully for them, there’s Thailand, where the doofus is king. And boy howdy are they ever here in droves at the moment. Feckin hell.
Then I stopped in at Tilac because a lesbian I’ve been chasing said she worked there. I’ve never actually seen her in there. Maybe it was a misdirect but that would make the girl smarter than I suspect her to be. The joint was freezing cold. I counted four 9s. Beer Lao for 180b. They had double the dancers of low season, and they were all hungry for ladydrinks. I must be a quandary for girls on Soi Cowboy. They assume I’m a lone sex tourist. How can I tell them, “No I’m not here to barfine. I’m looking for my lesbian friend”? What sense would that make?
Four bars were more than enough Cowboy for this old buckaroo. I beat a retreat t’Pong and pulled up a chair outside K1 for a Backwoods Honey Bourbon and b ruskie. For some reason I was an object of interest for a few fat cow-eyed tourists in the beer garden. They stared like I was a zoo animal. Is it unusual that I speak Thai and know all the staff? That they bring my drink before I order it? Maybe. But more likely is the notion that a pudgy entitled white clam would try to assess how much matriarchal power she’d have over me, and feel chagrined that she came up empty. So the cow-scowl is a result of seeing a man, free in the wild, who can’t be hobbled by a dumb, dysfunctional, gross Western bovine with a yen for ballbusting. Look on in frustration, lady. Soak it in. I’ve been saved by TLOS. My parade is safe from your rain. The men who stare are just as transparent. The look says, “How did you get where you are, and what can I do to get there?” You already know the answer, dude. Ditch the heifer, sell your belongings, and get a one-way ticket.
Then the barmaid brought me a beer I didn’t order, and two dancers came to sit and chat, so I didn’t end up hitting any gogos. I finished the Heiny bade farewell to the girls, and went to bed.
As the weekend loomed, the past several nights could be summarized as a hazy malaise of staring down new hotties in all the King’s bars. I can’t keep track of them. I just know there’s a slew of newbies (slewbies for short). After lusting on two perfect sex machines in k1 while Offy tried in vain to get my attention I shifted next door to the old K2 to leer at two more. Oh, to be a new Pongmonger with an empty conc roster and horned-up gonads again. But this old dickslinger must leave the new crop of hotties to a younger, more eager redlighter. My raunchiest days are done. I’m relegated to the soft safety of a longstanding harem and their enduring, endearing fidelity. Oh, the horror.
At least, that’s what I should’ve said and then let sleeping whores lie. Instead, I had one of the newhotties over for a drink and began baiting the trawling net to drag her onto my sex barge like an errant tuna. She was incredible. When a new minge sits down with me, I do a test. It begins with a thigh squeeze, followed by moving her hair to one shoulder. Then I look her in the eye and slide my hand up to a centimeter from her nether region. If she flinches, it’s a bad sign. If she remains composed, I know I’m already in. I follow that with a series of questions and jokes designed to disarm her and realize our encounter is unlike any she’s had before with a farang. Then I give her my Line and tell her if she ever wants to see me, she can send a message. Then on every subsequent visit I will ignore her in favor of other girls until she’s so crazy with jealousy she’ll have no choice but to claim me with her clam. I call it a proClammation, copyright BKK7.
Then I popped to the terrace to smoke a mini and watch the crush of high season tourist scum. The Night Market was so jammed, people could barely muddle through. Every 10 seconds someone tried to snap a photo of the King’s 1 doorway. And I suppose to the average vanilla tourist, it is a spectacle. A gogo bar would practically constitute a crime in the misandristic hell of the West. Thank Buddha for this patriarchal paradise called Thailand.
Something I’ve come to find endearing is the crowds of beta males that come to tlos hoping for the briefest touch of a beautiful female. I believe there’s a sliver of the divine in the fleeting moment of bliss offered by a benevolent Thai gogo dancer or bargirl to these love bereft sods. A mere half hour of tenderness will sustain these love deprived inches for a year, until they can save up enough from their job at ASDA to return and do it again. What grinds my gears are the herds of alphas who also come here because, in spite of their gym routine, hip tattoos and cologne, can’t close the deal in their home country. The reason I have no empathy for them is, they come here with an attitude of superiority over the betas, as if their muscles and Under Armour give them an edge over the dweebs and nerds. Nothing could be further from the truth. In the eyes of a shorttime gogo dancer, the carefully coifed chad is no better than the slovenly sap, because the color of their money is the same. That’s part of what makes this place so magical.
King’s corner was too crazy. I got squeezed into a corner seat surrounded by sino-nipons and barely got served a cocktail. ‘Twas a feeding frenzy of fanny in there. Then I popped to virgin, where the only girl who used to hold my interest has aged out. Her legs and ass have hit the squishy stage, and you experienced mongers will know what I mean. Firm musculature is a must, and after a certain age, these poor gals just lose it. Speaking of losing it, as I got up to leave I spotted a chickie who, just 2 months ago, was a smoking hot piece of ass. In that short interim she became a gross chunkster. It’s possibly the saddest thing that could ever happen in the redlight. I hate to say it but she’d be better off if she got hit by a car. The fatness has ruined too many hotties in the redlight. Oxfam or some other organizations should put a stop to it.
In other news…many longtime expats probably remember Dave the Rave. The man was a gregarious, likeable man-about-town who posted fun snippets of Bangkok life to his website, which is also called Dave the Rave. Then, heartbreaking misfortune befell the man, and he was forced to move back to the UK. But his website endured, partially due to the contributions of Bangkok’s biggest cunt—Shitbag Bob. You know Bob. He’s a talentless, vindictive, narcissistic manchild who views every other nightlife personality (myself included) as a threat to his enterprise. And who can blame him for worrying? I mean, I don’t do what he does (taking mediocre photos for gogo bars and posting pointless, boring blogs to the interweb) and have no interest in taking his clients away, but I suppose if my content sucked as hard as his does, I’d see everyone as a threat, too. His online presence is abysmal, so the only way he can gather an audience is by riding on the coattails of other, better content creators—like Dave. And that’s what happened. He didn’t buy the site. He’ll never make enough money to buy someone’s website. A 3rd party has purchased it and quietly hired Bob to produce content for it. I say “quietly” because Bob, whose full name is Bob the Blob of Vaginal Discharge has alienated many bar and pub owners over time, and he will definitely use the new platform to shit-talk about everyone who didn’t hire him or parted ways with him in the past. Expect the once-fun Dave the Rave to become a tedious, banal waste of internet space rife with petty bitching and unhelpful nightlife posts. In fact, it’s a crime to keep calling it Dave the Rave. Henceforth I’ll be referring to it as Bob the Knob.
On a side note, I want to give a shout-out to A&S Services in Bangkok for their recent VIP airport service. Two entries ago, I was given the 3rd degree by overzealous ballbusting Immigration staff for the crime of having too many stamps in my Passport. Recently, I had to go to Seoul for a day, and on my return A&S got me through in less than 5 minutes with zero hassles, for the low price of 3k baht, and it was worth every satang.
Speaking of visa problems, for anyone trying to navigate the minefield that is the new DTV Visa—the digital nomad visa—things have gone from confounding to downright fucked. Every country’s consulate has a different and crazy set of demands that make no sense. Thankfully, in typical Thai fashion several local visa agencies have stepped up to bypass all the red tape and documentation. With only your Passport, they can get your 5-year DTV in a single day…for 95k. Yep, you read that right. Personally, I’m going to wait a year and obtain one after the price and procedure have settled down. For any of you enduring the insane minefield of that application process, you have my sympathy.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is a series of selfies and home dance videos sent to me by gogo dancer Joy, formerly of XXX Lounge. She looks good.
The link is here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-gogo-dancer-joy/
but only if you become a Member. The price 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:
@superhotthais
@BangkokNightli2
If you’re feeling generous, you can leave a tip on any of the above X profiles. All proceeds will go to creating more redlight content for you.
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: To locals and expats…you don’t have to be polite to tourists. They don’t automatically deserve your cordiality, and you’re not an ambassador for Thailand just because you live here. Just sayin’.
