What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession.
For those tuning in hoping for conclusions to last week’s post, I won’t keep you in suspense. I never did find my lost friend and don’t even know if he’s still in Nha Trang. The closest I got, and only proof I had that he’d even been there, came from an old lady in a tiny bar down a side alley where the bar was the only business, and when I say tiny, I mean it had two tables. She said she recognized him, that he used to drink in there regularly but she hadn’t seen him in over a year.
The hot babushka never came back and didn’t message again after the second night, and as for Viet Tinder, well….after hitting ‘like’ a hundred times, I matched with one 20-year-old. The story of her tiny waist and wide hips is buried below in the following diatribe. Though if you’re wondering why I remained in Nha Trang for so long, the short answer is that Tinder honey. But I digress.
After more than a week of noodle soup and French Viet sandwiches, I couldn’t do it anymore. I decided to fill the remainder of the trip with whatever Western fare this town could produce. That began in the evening with a carefully Google-researched trip to an Italian joint near the beach road called Mio. I got the Pazza pizza and a bruschetta starter with a lovely glass of red. 434 baht all-in. The bruschett was a trio of bread slices with different toppings. Get a breakdown of this meal over at my Substack (link below).
For the entirety of this holiday, everything I’ve eaten has tasted remarkably clean. It reminded me of what food tasted like when I was a child, before chemical companies replaced natural ingredients with poisons. I guess when your govt is communist they don’t have to soft-kill you with carcinogens because they’ve already got you by the short-hairs.
In the afternoon of the following day, I was lost for what to put in my belly, so I consulted Google Maps again. I don’t know how I missed it but it showed me another taco place just a block from the hotel called Tippy’s. I got tacos three ways: fish, pork (both 55k= 74 baht), and steak (65k= 87 baht). They offered what were clearly homemade tortillas chips with 2 sauces–mild, and rip-your-lid-off hot. Without thinking I ordered a Corona (107b) before noticing the margarita for 115b. So I got one of those as well. Check the Substack for details. It was all, in a word, fantastic. Then I went home for a siesta and woke up around sundown.
At 20.00 I decided I was too bored to stay in and watch the bay, so combed my head and plunged out onto the street before taking one second to look out the balcony. If I had, Id’ve seen it was pissing down. But I was productive. I sloshed to the cigar joint and picked up four Romeo y Julietas for 600b apiece. After that it was 50 meters of downpour to a table at the Lumiere Texas craft beer joint. I got a glass of stout for 90k dong (115b) and popcorn shrimp for 130 (171b). The latter came from a sense of pressure to place an order. A food-bev match it was not, so I also got a glass of Chilean sparkling. Happily, the popcorn shrimp were sans exoskeleton. Everything went down easy, with a live band doing bad versions of Adele songs in the background.
When the rain stopped, I took a stroll along the beach, rubbing elbows with the locals as they went about doing all the freeofcharge activities one may do in a socialist republic. The tourists mostly congregated around the beach bars, like moths to a flame. I also gravitated to one, and found a table in the sand where I could smoke a Cuban without bothering anyone. I ordered a white russian but received a b ruskie by mistake. It was my own fault for trying to steer out of my lane. The universe said, Nah bitch. It’s only BR’s for you. There was barely a hint of a breeze on the beach and the sky was clear and black and starry. If not for a table of loud loutish Aussies yammering away about nonsense, ‘twould’ve been a perfect evening. The Cuban was poorly rolled and wouldn’t stay lit so I switched to a mini vanilla flavored that made the taste of the b ruskie light up like a synapse on LSD.
After one cocktail, I allowed an electric rickshaw driver to take me on a 30-minute city tour for 150k (197b). He drove me down streets I never would’ve walked on my own. A cool breeze made the evening downright pleasant. When he dropped me in front of the Panorama, I ducked into the nearest minimart for a bag of beers. Two 20ish Russian girls were in front of me in the checkout line–a skinny blue-eyed redhead and her chubby black-haired friend. The chubster had a giant cobra tattoo that covered one entire leg. The redhead kept looking back at me and murmuring to her cohort, which could only mean one of two things: either she was mocking me or she was into me. A lot of late-teen early-20s girls out on their own after sundown also coincidentally have daddy issues. To that ilk, I’m like a great big rollypolly gray-bearded pile of catnip. After they paid, they lingered outside the door of the minimart. When I exited, the redhead turned and stared. I could’ve ignored it and walked on but my ego wouldn’t let me. I returned her gaze. “You are Russian?” she asked me in Russian. American, I replied. She blushed and turned to whisper something to the snaky chubster. Then I busted out the only sentence I know in Russian, which translates “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.” They both gasped and giggled like kids, and I wondered whether they were actually 20, or perhaps much younger. The last thing I needed was to fraternize with a couple of underage future KGB agents, so I winked and walked across the street to the hotel. They followed me inside and all the way to the lift, which was already nearly full. I squeezed in, and as the doors shut the redhead gave a sheepish wave. Goddam, them Russian girls are ballsy.
The next afternoon, I made up my mind to try the 2nd of the two Mexican joints I’d found on the same alley the previous week. The first was Cactus. I mentioned them in last week’s post. The new prospective destination, called La Mancha, looked fancier, according to Google Images. When I left the hotel, I did a cursory walk past the Russian tour kiosk in search of my communist hot pocket. She wasn’t there, so I put her to the back of my mind.
According to Google, the other Mexican wasn’t Mexican at all, but rather Mediterranean Spanish, in the style of the fare one might find in Barcelona or Mallorca. Let me rephrase that– according to Google, their menu was in the exact style I personally found whilst gallivanting around Barcelona and Mallorca back in 2009. I was overly excited to see how many nostalgic flashbacks the meal would induce, which is why I was crestfallen to find on arrival that the joint had been renamed La Villa, and only a tiny fraction of La Mancha’s menu had survived. The rest was all Russian-friendly fare and pizza. I abandoned my hopes for a Barcellona flashback ordered a plate of Iberico ham, 4 cheeses (gorgonzola, brie, Manchego, Iberico), and one glass each of the house red and white. The latter was a crisp Spanish Albarino. The red was a sultry tempranillo. Consult my Substack for a rundown of the food.
As I polished off the grub, seemingly by psychic powers the waitress set an ashtray on the table. I asked to see the drink menu again because just below the list of grappa I had spotted a few portos. I ordered a reserva and lit up a mini Cohiba, remembering one of the reasons I believe in God. The smell of the tobacco leaf and how it rhymes with the wine and porto like stanzas in a sonnet, plus the ham and honey and blue cheese marrying every pleasing flavor like an orgy of sensory overload can’t be just happenstance. Someone somewhere loved humanity enough to give us all these taste titillations (tastillations for short). Or if you prefer, in lieu of a God, the programmer of this simulation of verisimilitude. This verisimulation. Whatever alien designed our reality did so with our epicurean delights in mind.
Afterward, I went barhopping again, this time walking south to the Google-famous Street Dating Pub, a watering hole staffed by young girls in short skirts that, were it in Thailand, would be slinging that gash like it was going out of style. But these girls ran from me like squirrels scattering at the sight of a hound. Another fat lone punter came in and they ran upstairs and disappeared. Then, as suddenly as they vanished, they reappeared as a group and performed a small coordinated dance routine whilst taking care to not look in the direction of either myself or the other dude. After one song, they scattered again. Another curly haired solo punter kept pacing back and forth along the street, wai’ing every girl he saw. Wrong country, buddy. 51k (67b) for a bottle of Heineken.
After one beer, I skipped down to a place called Kill Kenney, if only for my fondness for Kilkenny. It turned out to be a shisha bar with Kenny from South Park on the sign and a lone hippydippy white dude smoking inside. I did an about-face and walked back up toward the beach road. For a second, I considered doing a few cocktails at the Sailing Club, but in the end I just wanted to get off those busy, noisy streets. In the short stroll back to the hotel, I had another taxi biker offer to drive me to a brothel. But the best-case scenario I could envision was some poor, old, fat thing with an itchy minge. Worst case, I’d get rolled for my phones and cash.
As I passed a random coffee shop, I overheard a heated convo between a Russian dude and Viet gal behind the counter. He was trying to get her to come to his hotel room and she was calmly but sternly explaining that her job was there, at the shop, and if he wanted a shorttime girl he was barking up the wrong tree.
I guess now would be a good time to tell the tale of my one and only Nha Trang Tinder date.
We met late one afternoon outside Lotte Market and from that I got the feeling she was being overcautious and might not want to go back to my place. I took us to the Sheraton’s rooftop bar. We ordered drinks and appetizers.
She said her name was Minh. 20 years old, born and raised in Nha Trang and works at Lotte, which is I guess why she wanted to meet there. Her English was limited, and a lot got lost in translation.
She was quite shy at first, and for a while we didn’t talk much. Then I started asking her the names of things in Vietnamese. What’s that? pointing at the pool. What’s this? holding up the fork. That broke the ice, and she became quite chatty. She clearly thought her English was better than it was, because I understood about 10% of what she said, and she didn’t pause to check.
We polished off a bottle of sparkling and then hopped an electric rikshaw ride around the beach road. At one point, she leaned over and planted a kiss on my cheek. I’m not sure why. In the moment, it felt like something she felt like she should do, as if she was acting out a kind of ‘first-date’ scenario she might’ve seen on TV or in a film. When we were dropped outside Lotte, she asked if she could come back to my hotel. I said of course, and we swung into a minimart for a bottle of champagne. Back in the room, I poured us each a glass and we stood on the balcony, watching the ripples on the bay. When she’d finished the wine, she went to the loo. After what felt like a long time, when she didn’t return, I peeked inside. She was in the bed, covered up to her neck with the blankets. She had a sheepish smile on her face. I asked if she was feeling OK. She threw back the comforter to reveal her completely naked body, then covered up again with a small giggle. To me, it was like watching an alien from outer space try to navigate male-female interaction, but I thought maybe this was a tactic she’d tried before that worked for her, so I dutifully undressed and climbed in next to her.
In last week’s post I mentioned that Vietnamese chicks all look so similar, they might be clones of each other. For reference, I’ve included a smattering of Tinder profile photos so you can see what I’m talking about.
I also mentioned last week that Viet girls have hourglass figures. That wasn’t extreme enough. They look like the real-life version of the animated drawing of Jessica Rabbit. They all have tiny waists and big dumpers, with thick sturdy legs. I don’t like it. I much prefer the tiny on tiny on tiny of Thai girls, but Minh’s tiny porcelain frame looked flawless in the low-lit dusk, and I was immediately ensnared.
What ensued was the most awkward and unfamiliar yet soft and sweet coital experience of my life. She had no idea what to do, and was basically a compliant participant (complicipant for short) in my x-rated romp. It would’ve been a miserable experience if not for 1—her sweet, smiling innocence and 2—her absolutely rocking hot (if big-assed) body. In short, I was the lone rider on a woman-roller coaster that lasted barely longer than a ride on a real one. When it was over, she showered, dressed, and bailed. I couldn’t tell if it was her first time doing this or her thousandth. The entire time, I kept waiting for her to name a price, but she never did. When she went to leave, I walked her down to the lobby. She stood on tiptoe to give me a peck on the lips and said she’d call me tomorrow, and that was it. She never asked for money.
FYI, I didn’t see her again. I sent her a Line message that was just a sticker of a bear and a bunch of pink hearts. She replied with a bear-and-bunny-hugging sticker, and we never communicated after that.
On my last day out in the Trang, I went back to the Sailing Club for lunch. Consult my Substack for the rundown. Again, I was struck by how clean the food tasted. You don’t realize how artificial your food is until you get a faceful of grub that’s real.
The beef was super rare but I didn’t mind. I could’ve done with less sambal soto but apart from that, it was magnificent. The side of fries were the best I’ve had in years.
That afternoon the beach was blissful, with partly cloudy skies, a cool breeze blowing in from the bay, and a couple dozen husky, bikini clad Russian women ranging in age from 40 to 80. ‘Twas the largest collection of fat asses in g-strings that I’d personally ever witnessed. For good measure, a few fat red men in speedos were scattered around, along with the odd hot Russian teen and sexy Asian chick making everyone else look like dog shit. As the sun dipped into late afternoon I strolled home, stopping in a souvenir shop to pick up a bracelet for conc number 1, and that was all she wrote for this Viet holiday.
The long and short of Nha Trang, from my limited experience, is: it’s cheap, it’s beautiful, the food is awesome, and you’ve a statistically better chance of nailing lonely Russian chicks than reeling in any native girls.
In Bangkok redlight news, I’m happy to see my buddy Dennis—who left the Dollhouse without a new next—has found one at Lollipop Nana Plaza. I’ll go ahead and take credit for that, since I’m the one who introduced Big D to the Bangkok Prince as a prospective hire when he first started to express chagrin about the dealings at DH. So you’re welcome, Nana. You banned me for the weakest reason ever, but I continue to make you better than you were—inadvertently.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is a bunch of candid shots of some Patpong pretties onstage and off. The link can be found here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-patpong-action-shots/
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: One more note on the hotel where I stayed in Nha Trang…
The Panorama Star (aka Panorama) gets a 9 of 10. The only reason it doesn’t get full marks is, every day, despite the clear “Do Not Disturb” sign on my door, housekeeping tried to enter my room. I’m fine getting a room wiped own every three days or so but a daily cleaning is just overkill, and I hate the chore of stashing my extra cash, so every goddam day I had to wait for them to ignore the sign on the door and then tell the 4 tiny women in the hallway to come back tomorrow. The first few days, they showed up around 10 am, but as the time passed and I denied them over and over, they showed up later and later. I assumed they were hoping id left the room so they could ignore my desire to not be disturbed and clean against my wishes. I mean, is it some kind of communist thing? Like they’d be sent to the gulag if they disnt carry out their duties? By the time the trip was over, they were showing up at 4 pm. I had to wait around all day to deny them entry. Other than that, the place is a 10.
