What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my—y’know what, I’m going to stop calling it a blog. “Blog” implies I’m delivering news on the Bangkok redlight scene. That’s not what I do. If news creeps into my content, it’s by accident, or because I’m in the thick of things and have a first-person perspective. You’ve already got a selection of boring, weak, shitty ‘news’ bloggers to choose from. That ain’t what I’m about. So going forward, I’ll refer to this weekly as my confession, since that’s closer to true. I’m a failed novelist using this platform to flush my need to write from my system. It’s a happy accident I live life in the redlight—a scene some people want to read about. So let’s get at it.
For those not in the know, I retired from my day job in March, and the effect on my day-to-day has been profound. In a previous post, I described it as attaining a life of comfort. Three months in, I’d say it’s better than that. I daresay it’s a life of near perfection. The hardest part of my week is not going back to bed at noon. After waking up at 6 am for 10 straight years, I now open my eyes at around 8:00, which by simple math means I’ve lost two hours of sleep every night for an entire decade. That’s a lot of sleep to catch up on. In between naps, I’ve been binge-watching Netflix. I just finished an action-comedy called “The Brothers Sun” about a Triad family and set in Los Angeles. The acting ain’t great, but the fight scenes are cool and there’s a handful of superhot Asian chicks in it, which is my number 1 reason for watching anything. It’s why, if Sho-gun gets another season, I won’t watch it. They killed-off the only hottie in the 2nd to last episode.
Another retirement-related problem is, I can’t keep track of the days. If Groovin’ High is shut, I know it’s Monday. If Patpong is quiet, that means it’s Sunday. If the lady selling fruit on my soi is M.I.A. then it’s Saturday. On all the other days, I’m fucked.
On one of those unknown days last week, I forced myself out of a nap at 16.00 to go down and try a new beer at G’s: The Alesmith IPA from San Diego, California. ‘Twas aggressively IPAish, the bitter-citrus like a refreshing slap in the face. Like when you snap out of an evil spell. Later, while smoking a Tabak outside K1, a fight broke out between bouncers at the live Muzzik bar and a tourist. I won’t say what country he was from, because frankly I don’t know. Let’s just say it must’ve fallen between Myanmar and Egypt. Clearly the visitor had shown an intolerable level of disrespect. His travel buddies tried their best to hold him back while the bouncer got a couple of punches in before the foreigner’s friends dragged him away. Redlight Rule number 1 is, never leave before the rotation. Rule Zero is, never start shit with Thais. The dude is lucky his friends were able to save him from what could’ve ended his life. Unlike farang in Thailand, Thais will never behave improperly unless provoked. The only time I saw rude behavior from Thais was in Phuket, but that’s because they got pushed to the breaking point daily by idiot tourists. If I had to work with foreign cunts every day, I’d be a powder keg, too. So I get it. I get the feeling that if the unruly visitors were on holiday in, say Italy, they wouldn’t think of behaving badly. But for some reason some dudes think they can come here and act the fool with impunity. It’s a dangerous prospect.
On another random midweek night, I Ponged again. If I narrate the events, it’ll just be a copy of my last two blogs so here’s the summary:
King’s 2 (aka New2): Newhotskinny? Check. Veteran vixens? Check. Off the chain? Check. Chubsters? Sure, but remarkably fewer than the average BK gogo. Tons of punters (tonters for short, copyright BKK7) Well, I was in at 21.00, and for some reason this bar doesn’t open till half eight so the joint wasn’t full. I imagine it got there later. The customer ratio was 95% Nipon.
King’s 1: Newhotness? Check. Veterans who love Seven? Check. Too many wai’s? Check. In both of these gogos, girls asked me if I had a girlfriend. ‘Twas a weird question. I thought everyone knew my situation by now. Maybe I’m not as famous as I thought. It gives me comfort. Last week, a dude approached me in a gogo and said, “You’re Seven.” He didn’t even give me a chance to deny it. “How in the fuck did you know that?” I asked. He said he’s been in the redlight for years and he’s one of the 10 people who reads my blog (shout out to you, dude). I was flattered, embarrassed, and freaked out. I’ve tried my best to remain anonymous in order to maneuver through the redlight more easily. Also the more farang who recognize me, the greater the chance for mishap.
King’s Corner: Newhotskinnies: Yes. Oldies-but-hotties: Yep. A skinny, big-titted girl who insists on Seven buying her a drink: Indeed. The collection of fetching fanny was epic. And let me just say (throwback to last week’s post) if you’re a punter who finds King’s hard to navigate because of the Thai-owned vibe, I suggest visiting multiple times to just observe the dynamic. It’s common for the girls who work for Thai-owned bars to act a certain way. That biosphere is distinct, and like a newly-purchased tropical fish plunging into an aquarium, one must acclimate. Once you do, I think you’ll find as I did that it’s pure revelry.
Then I flipped back to Groovin’ High to hear a band called Organ Service, which coincidentally is the nickname of my harem. I had a couple glasses of Bordeaux and listened to lead singer Inah, whose voice was euphoric. And when someone requested “Misty,” after taking a minute to find the right key, goddam if they didn’t knock it out of the park. Not surprisingly, Inah is Filipino. When I lived in Seoul, literally every live music band in the city were from The Philippines. There’s something in their DNA that just produces good singers and musicians. In fact, the only think I enjoyed about Korea was going to Gangnam every Friday night to watch Filipinos bust out cover tunes. I don’t recommend working in Korea unless you go with a spouse or girlfriend. The culture is quite racist. No Korean girl will openly date a foreigner for the same it would bring on her family. The best you can hope for is random attention from old, fat, freelance hookers.
Thursday was the birthday party of an old Patpong godfather—Electric Blue boss Jim. He held it at Chesa, a joint I’ve always wanted to check out. I was a fucking hour late thanks to traffic and poor choices by the Grab driver. I arrived to find the party in full swing with the whole restaurant taken over by Jim’s friends and family, including other redlight bigwigs. EB owner Andy was there, having made the trip up from Ptown, along with Jersey Dan. It was a who’s who of old redlight royalty. The food spread was a buffet of delicious meats, the highlight of which was a succulent roast beef. Also, paella and raclette stations, as well as an open bar. Jim was in good spirits but kept busy the whole night playing host and making sure everyone’s glass was full. I felt privileged to be invited in the first place, and felt like a fly on the wall in a Coppola-style movie scene.
The party was good practice for me. Normally I’d never say a word out loud to other farang, but at this shindig I made small talk, met strangers, and listened to them talk about their lives. I chatted about geopolitics and life in other countries. I even got a small taste of celebrity, once the big shots learned I was the one who slapped Shitbag in Nana the previous week. It turns out they all hate him, because, spoiler alert: he’s a bag of shit. And so for a moment, it was all handshakes and shoulder patting. Then I learned how many people have been banned from Nana, and most are a list of very cool people who just managed to get Nana’s knickers in a twist. Among the Bangkok notorious, banishment is kind of a badge of honor. So not only am I off the hook for reporting on it, I’m now listed among some of the coolest blokes in town.
From there, ‘twas a short ride to Cowboy and Dollhouse. I chatted with Dennis for a bit, and though I knew I should’ve done my due diligence and hit a couple more bars, especially since Crazy House’s owner is picking up the old Lighthouse, I just couldn’t be bothered. So I lit out for the Pong.
I stopped in to a packed New2 but with none of my close galpals in sight. I got a few wai’s from the stage and various girls around the room, some of whom were sat with customers which was awkward. They were likely plagued with thoughts like, “Did she fuck that guy?” No, dummy. I’m the Baron von Pong. Chicks know me.
In King’s 1 the boss bought me a beer. It’s a gentle reassurance that I’m cool as I think I am in this hundred-meter stretch of redlight. I glanced up from my bottle to see a former Thigh Bar dancer who made K1 her home just before Covid. She was shuffling between customers, drinking with them both like a badass. I don’t know how these girls can keep their head and pound whiskey with multiple tourists like it ain’t a thang. K1 was crazy per usual. There was so much clunge getting slung around, you’d think it was a pussy factory.
Virgin’s stage was comparably packed with puss, once again solidifying its place as a bastion of one-night bangers—or longer, if one were so inclined. I’ve once again garnered the attention of a random hottie in there, and again it’s my fault. When I drink too much, I start stuffing hundies in the undies of every flat-stomached girl in a joint. Sometime during the previous week, I paid a little too much attention to a new tall skinny who has now locked onto me like a laser-guided cooter. The upside is, when I got a sober look at her, she’s fortunately quite fetching. But as I’m not in the market for a new concubine, I let her alone on Thursday and made a quiet exit.
On Friday, I forced my lazy ass off the couch and shlepped along t’Pong. There were no empty seats in K1 at 20.30 so I was relegated to New2, which had only opened minutes before. Still, ten punters were already dug-in like ticks. A smarmy little farang trying to carve out a space in the local pongmonger game, whom I see 50% of the time these days, walked in and circled the stage, stopping here and there to strike up unsuccessful chats with random girls. He’s the one I mentioned in a previous blog who buys a beer in K1 and then carries it with him into New2 and K Corner so he doesn’t have to spend money in each location. When he’s not zig-zagging between Kings’s, he stands next to the locker room door and watches the girls while they get dressed.
It amazes me that dudes can come to this fish-in-a-barrel setting and still strike out. But maybe that’s just unique to BKK. In Pattaya, the girls do all the work. Even if a dude has zero game, he can still score. The same was true back when I lived in Phuket, though that was 11 years ago. Speaking of, at time of posting I’m in a taxi going to Suvarnabhumi. In a few hours, if all goes to plan, I’ll be on Patong Beach. Another perk of retirement is, I can go places now. For the past decade, all my holidays were taken up with trips to California to help out my mum. Now that I’m on permanent vacay, I feel like I deserve to hit up some places I actually want to visit—or in this case, revisit. I want to see my old stomping grounds in Phuket, Krabi, and Samui, plus check out Phnom Penh again…and maybe Vietnam and Bali. Get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’, I say. But I digress.
Getting back to the Bangkok redlight game, it’s true you actually need to have some. One of the worst sights is a sad sack crashing and burning in the gogo. If I were to write a book on how to succeed in the gogo, the first rule would be to shorttime at least two girls in a bar. If you bang just one, she’ll claim you and you’ll be stuck with her every time you go to that bar. She’ll be joined to your hip and will clungeblock you from every other poontang prospect. But if you bang two—and I don’t mean at the same time, but it wouldn’t hurt if you did—they claim-cancel each other out. Or for pimp status, get the Lines of a couple girls and don’t bother barfining. Message them a few days later and arrange a meet sans gogo-go-between. That way you have plausible deniability with both.
By half 9, New2 was full, and that horny pheromone I mentioned last week oozed from the stage like treacle. Half a dozen of my fave femme fatales prowled the stage like caged jungle cats. Then I swung back to K1 where Offy attacked me, coiling herself around my leg and refusing to leave. I engaged her in a log, serious conversation about her oral skills. She asserted she gives excellent head. I insisted she demonstrate. She pantomimed something between eating an ice cream cone and gnawing through a tree branch like a beaver. I decided then and there to never let her within chomping distance of my wang. The boss passed me another free beer, and as the place grew more crowded I was squeezed out of my seat and onto the terrace. Two dancers came and sat with me. One asked why I never barfine her. I don’t even know her. I offered to take her into the old K2 and drill her for a full two minutes if she’d pay me 100 baht. She found it hilarious but in the end, didn’t take the offer.
In Virgin, I’ve made up my mind to bed two of their dancers. One is already keen, though I’ve yet to begin negotiations. The other has no idea I’ve painted a target on her. Five months ago, she was too chubby for Seven, but after several straight weeks of exercise on that stage, she’s almost at fighting weight. Once she gets there, I’m going to lay a trap for her that she won’t see coming until I do (see what I did there?). But on Friday, all my best-laid plans were again yokblocked by Yok, who slid into the seat next to me mere seconds before I could reel in girltarget 1. As I sat there chagrined at missing my chance, I cast my gaze toward the stage, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but Oo—infamous former Bada Bing girl-turned King’s Corner regular. She’s found a new home at Virgin, but these days she’s a shadow of her former self. I have photos of her former, prepandemic hotness that would melt your screen, she was so fine. Not anymore, friends. She’s average at best now. Hardly worth a mention, mostly due to the extra kilos but also, her spark is gone. She seems to understand her diminished status and has accepted that defeat like a disarmed warrior at the end of a battle. What bested her? Time. And KFC.
On leaving Virgin, I wasn’t ready to go home so I skated over to King’s Corner, worried that the hotskinny I banged from there a few weeks ago might bogart my attention. From here on I’m going to refer to such gals as ball-draggers because figuratively that’s what they feel like. Like they grab onto your balls and force you to drag them along with you in the redlight, crushing all hope of fishing for new strange. It’s cumbersome. On entering, I found the only open seat. The stage was rife with newpussy. It was a fucking spectacle (fuckpectacle for short, copyright BKK7). My ball-dragger wasn’t around, or maybe she was busy with a customer somewhere in the melee. A girl I used to nail back in 2016 wai’d me, to the bewilderment of Nipons and dancers alike. I wonder about the air of mystery I must invoke in those situations. People can’t gauge who this old farang could be. In my mind I think, I’m Seven, bitches.
On Saturday, my number 1 concubine came by for some bedroom olympics. After that I packed for my southern Thai sojourn and went to sleep early. Tune in next week for tales from Bangla and Ao Nang.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is a throwback gallery from The Strip. 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.
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 posters and prints on canvas can be purchased at
https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
Here are a few ink-on-canvas works for sale now:
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: This tip is strictly for local mongers. Don’t assume that because you never see a certain gogo dancer get barfined, that she doesn’t get railed constantly. I recently had a girl over to my place who I’d known for years and never seen go with a customer. But when it came to coitus, she was clearly a seasoned pro and her nethers were a gaping, over-spelunked chasm. Unless she just arrived by bus yesterday from Isaan, she’s the vaginal equivalent of a 1980 Chevy Camaro.
