…Where the girls are cheap and the beach is shitty. Take! Me! Hoome, yeah-yeah!
And this will be my home someday, reader. I plan to live out my last days in this pussy-pugilist’s paradise. And judging by my casual observation, I’m the last man to have this idea. I’d guess around 50% of Ptown’s population are white dudes with one foot in the grave. So much so that, after cooter-slinging, the two busiest businesses in town must be the morgue and the crematorium.
What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
Pattaya is crazy-busy this high season. It’s so goddam crowded, Taco Bell ran out of hard shells. And considering they have to be shipped in from 8,000 miles away, there’s not much hope of a crunchy taco anytime soon. But I digress. Here’s the tale of my Ptown post-Xmas pre-New Year’s chillout session…
I grabbed a Grab out of Silom at 10.00. Traffic was pretty light. If you must travel by car out of BKK, do it on Boxing Day. Pattaya was cool and breezy on arrival—cool enough for the Thais to break out their jumpers and gloves, but not cool enough that a farang should put on jeans, though many a fucking retard did.
After getting settled, I snuck in a nap. Then I watched the sun go down from my beachfront balcony and headed to Soi 6. The girls were all wrapped up in sweatshirts and pashminas. Per my previous visit, the hordes of soi roamers and chicks were back to pre-plandemic levels. I had the 2-slice 1-beer for 200b deal at Slice—one krapow, one Hawaiian, and yeah I know Europeans don’t like seeing pineapple on pizza, but I’m a Cali native, and we know: the sweetness of the fruit accentuates what sweet there is in the tomato sauce, and juxtaposed with the savory of the ham and cheese, it’s a mindfuck of mastication. Plus, it’s no worse than putting crab or squid on a pie.
A few DIRs (diamonds in the rough) were scattered around The 6 but all I could think was how they’dve been railed by 21.00. A handful of bars remain shut post-Covid, but most are up, running, and crammed with old dudes, plus hundreds of cookie-cutout replicas of a fat, bald American in board shorts and flip flops. Both types are locals who’ve chosen to spend their remaining days on this soi, carousing with the girls and giving tourists the side-eye. Which, I suppose, is a version of my future. But for now, I’m still the Baron of Patpong. I swung into Omega Bar, mainly because there were no oldies or baldies in at the time. The manager went round and shook every customer’s hand. From there, I looked for another joint that wasn’t too busy and found one just before hitting the Beach Road. ‘Twas La La Land, and lo and behold who should be running the joint but an old buddy and former manager at XXX Lounge. We shot the shit for a while, caught up on each other’s lives, but then as shit-tons of punters started filling up the place, I beat a hasty retreat and hopped a baht bus to Walking Street.
Per usual, XS was a hypnotic fever dream of tits and ass. There were no seats at 21.00, and a hostess put me on a step, but a polite Chinese tourist pulled me up onto the seat next to him. XS has two small stages and one long one. They put 8 girls each on the smalls and 20 on the long. That’s 40 girls and 80 tits per rotation, and two tits-out rotations for a total titty tally of 160, with an additional rotation who don’t bear their breasts bringing the grand total of clunge to 120 girls. A good 85% of them are slender. That’s quite a titillatio (titillating ratio). I’ve said the same in previous Ptown blogs but it’s worth repeating, since this winning formula hasn’t changed.
Pin-Up has two stages with 16 girls each. By simple math that’s 32 tatas at a time. The girl I know there (Nom) from her Soi 6 days has had so much plastic surgery, she’s not just barely-recognizable as that naturally pretty girl of yore, but she’s barely-human-looking now. She more closely resembles an alien in a shitty Zac Snyder Star Wars rip-off (Rebel Moon is a pile of excrement). But I rubbed her plastic nose with a hundy and stuffed it between her rubber tits anyway.
Then I popped into Fahrenheit, which was crazed. 30 topless temptresses graced the stage. My galpal Mena, found me through that 6th sense that gogo girls have, enabling them to sniff out a regular/friend in a crowd of strangers. She sat with me for the length of two cocktails while I wrapped my hands around her tits (she said they were cold).
The following afternoon I was back on The 6 to take some b-roll. I had a beer in Omega. Soi 6 chews girls up and spits them out. The ones who look fresh have only been in town for a few days. By the end of month one, a 20-year-old looks 25, and a 25-year-old looks 35. It ain’t easy drinking tourists under the table on the daily—even harder to take on all comers. Stumbling upon an unused filly on The 6 is just that—a stumble, a bumble, a happy accident. I’ve gotten lucky with newbies around a dozen times over the years. Lately, that luck has run out. The youngin’s no longer look my way. I get the pushin’30’s on a good day. Navigating The 6 is a rough ask at my age. You have to be keen-eyed enough to spot a mark in the three seconds it takes to walk past a bar, and reset your targeting system a split-second later to scan the next one while at the same time seeing past the fatties who grab you on the soi. These days I’m not motivated enough to run the gauntlet in search of cooter. Not while my harem is waiting for me back in Bangkok. Speaking of, the harem hounds me every day that I’m way. They all think I’m cheating. If only they knew how nearly-impossible that is.
The NightWish Group keeps gobbling up bars on The 6. The rumors I’d heard of their demise was exaggerated. Unfortunately, all my old fave locations are bereft of hotties. I stopped in to Foxy, Roxy, Repent, Seduction, and Wrath with nary a cute chick among them. And sure, it’s likely any and all lookers were barfined by teatime. Either way, the vibe in these joints remains relaxed yet festive, horny yet cordial, sleazy yet sexy, if not pretty. You can’t have everything.
In sum, it’s not as fun being the old fucker in Ptown. Only the gross fatties and old hags show interest. If I want a PYT, I have to get past her defenses, and talk her into being into me. And I’m too lazy for that.
After burning out on Soi 6 I went to Tops and picked up some lobster mac ‘n cheese and tomahawk steak, and brought it back to sit on the balcony and watch the sun go down with a Drew Estate Factory Smoke and a bottle of shiraz. The soundtrack: Orchestral Menoeuvres in the Dark.
Cunting Taco Bell Pattaya ran out of hard shells, and of course they did. It’s high season, and the hard shell factory is 8,000 miles away.
The following evening, I got in the condo lift at 20.00 and it literally stopped at nine consecutive floors. Each time, an old white fucker got in. We were like a gang of zombies heading out to stagger around town. I walked over to LK Metro and straight to Lase Vegas to check on my friend Zaii, but she was M.I.A. That’s the 2nd time in two trips. Perhaps she’s moved on to greener pastures. LV had three rotations of 12 and lots of fake tits and back tattoos. Plus it’s always buy-one-get-one-free drinks in there.
Then I turned the corner and wandered into Slutz, mainly because I can never remember which of the bars on the backside are the ones I typically enjoy. It turns out, Slutz wasn’t one of them. 130b for a warm SML. Gone are the days when you could sip a brewsky for under a hundy in these joints. I backpedaled to Queen Club because they’re always showing up in my Twitter feed with photos of hot-ass chicks. However, said chicks aren’t as hot in person. Contrast that with XS and Pin-Up, whose girls are all hotter in person than in social media. I chalk it up to not being photogenic. QC had two rotations of 10, some of which spend a lot of time in the gym, and some who don’t. 155b for a vodka soda.
Kink had so few barmaids, a dancer crawled down from the stage to take my drink order. And get this, she didn’t stick around to pump me for a drink. She just returned to the stage and continued dancing.
From LK, I hoofed it over to Heaven Above on Soi Boomerang where my buddy RJ works. The place was rammed and I couldn’t find a seat, so I smoked a DE Acid Blondie outside, and then motaxi’d to The 6. Again. It was a fucking zoo. I stopped at Repent where I sat at the entrance and bought sweets from every 10-year-old that passed by. Then by sheer luck, I stuck my head in at La La Land and what to my wondering eyes should appear but my old buddy Jersey Dan, who now manages the joint. We shot the shit over a couple of beers, until the place started to fill up with punters. An American and his son insinuated themselves into our conversation. Only a yankee would be so presumptuous. They launched into a textbook retarded diatribe about tourist numbers. “Last year was quieter than this year.” I wanted to glass them both (throwback to a previous blog). Then one of them turns to me and says, “I didn’t catch your name.” As if I want you to, you git. “Seven,” I replied. He stares uncomprehendingly. I show him seven fingers. He still doesn’t understand. I ask where he’s from, not caring what the answer is. He says Connecticut. I say, “Oh, Dan’s also from the East Coast,” and that takes the spotlight off me, enough that I can quietly pay my bill and slip out unnoticed. Back at my condo, dudes were leaving just as I was getting home at 23.00. These are the Ptown clampires (clam vampires). They’re the opposite of the noon-delighters who nab girls the second the bar opens at 13.00. The clampires go out at the end of the night to scoop up whatever drunk remainers might still be in the bar. I admire any old fucker salty enough to attempt it.
The next day, the wifi in the condo cut out at 11.00 so I shuffled over to Central and quite by accident ended up at the Hilton’s Friday seafood buffet (750b++). The rundown was as follows: grilled prawn and crab, baked mussels, and array of sushi, cold cuts, rotisserie chicken, spaghetti, chicken parmesean, potatoes two ways, honey baked ham, pizza, and what they called ‘stuffing’ but was actually corn casserole. A massive table to Chinese tourists sat across from me, and the old matriarch dropped her fork on the floor three times, Buddha bless her. I made the blunder of ordering a glass of red wine (520b—here’s something I call the “Hilton hundy.” It’s the 100 extra baht tacked onto a glass of vino, purely because you’re at the fucking Hilton), thinking I’d pair it with the Italian fare. I should’ve opted for prosecco instead, if only to go with dessert, which was the usual accoutrement of mini cheese cakes, mousses, crème Broulee, fruitcakes, waffles, pancakes, and ice cream, plus warm raspberry crumble.
‘Twas a lot of food and a big variety (I didn’t even mention the Thai spread and salad bar), but unless you’re into splitting exoskeletons and sucking bits of crab and prawn from the nooks and crannies of multi-legged shells—which I am not—it wasn’t worth the money.
At half 7 there was a series of explosions that shook the condo. No, it wasn’t a terror attack. It was beach fireworks. On the goddam 29th. The New Year’s party had already begun. I jumped a motaxi to Walking Street, and the traffic was absurd. The Beach Road was down to one lane on account of all the shit getting loaded onto the sand. The whole road was lined with open food stalls and the crowds already resembled a prison riot.
Looking at nude chicks on a Pattaya gogo stage just makes me miss my harem. Is this what husbands/boyfriends who love their partners feel? I look at a pair of tits in Pin-Up and all I can think is, six of my harem have better knockers. Jeez, what’s wrong with me.
Things were really going of in Pin-Up by the time I got there. It’s strange rubbing elbows with so many Chines Triad and Yakuza in the same place. Thailand is like Morocco in the film “Casablanca.” It’s neutral ground where even an American dork like me has nothing to fear from Asian gangsters—as long as I behave myself. I also spotted a crew of Asian American gangsters from L.A. In high school, I was friends with the leader of the biggest Asian gang in Los Angeles. He’s been I prison for the past 30 years, but his brothers in arms have found their way to Pattaya.
A drop-dead gorgeous girl put the hard sell on me. I told her in Thai that I wasn’t a tourist, which is technically a lie in Ptown, and slipped a hundy in her bra. She said, “I know. You’re Seven. I remember you.”
Some farang douche brought his whit girlfriend into Pin-Up, to endure the torture while he got an eyeful. Everywhere she cast her gaze seemed to make her sick. Meanwhile, her weird boyfriend sipped a gay-looking cocktail and leered at the girls as though his ball and chain wasn’t even there. Suddenly, she got up and made for the door with the dude hurrying after her. After I paid, pissed, and left, I saw them arguing outside. It’s a common thing in Thailand. Never bring sand to the beach, as they say.
I’m still not used to walking through clouds of ganga smoke in TLOS. The things you can and can’t do in this country are so wildly disparate, it’s no wonder foreigners are confused.
After avoiding it for a year, I swung into Sapphire. I’d stayed away because, nearly a decade ago, I started reading palms in there and the barmaids went crazy for it. The place was crowded, and completely redecorated. Shockingly, they still sell a small Tiger draft for 70b. I was able to polish off one glass of beer and get halfway to the exit before two staffers grabbed me pulled off my baseball cap and shouted “It IS him, it IS him!” but I already had one foot out the door, thank fuck.
On my previous visit to Ptown, a joint on WS called “Okeanos Agogo” had finished their very ostentatious exterior but the inside was still a mess. This time around, they were open and serving, so I swung in to check them out. They had giant Nerf guns to shoot spongy balls at the 6-girl rotations. 196b for a SML. The dancers looked…….seasoned. As in, they’ve been in town for a good long time. What you want in a WS gogo is that fresh-from-the-farm feel. Windmill 2 started out as the spillover bar from the throngs of faithful punters who couldn’t fit inside Windmill 1 but these days they’re a force of their own. There were no seats downstairs. Upstairs, there was two rotations of 20 spread out over a stage and three bath tubs. I got a 99b Chang draft. I don’t normally find my type in Windmill, but I’ll say this: the girls are shamelessly randy, which is guess is why the joint is so popular, and everyone who works there is laid-back and nice. There are zero negative vibes in a Windmill gogo.
And that about does it for my Ptown rundown. The highlight of the trip was watching several sunsets from the condo’s balcony, each one a uniquely painted pink-orange-yellow-blue-red-white sky, with a cigar and a bottle of red. I didn’t find a girl worth barfining, which means I didn’t cheat on my harem, and returned to BKK with four of them scheduled right through to 2024.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Check back next Sunday for another summary of this redlight life. In the meantime, you can read more Bangkok-related stuff on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
Artwork and photo albums from inside the gogos are available for digital download at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart at super-low prices.
Slideshows from previous blogs going back several years can be found at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
Follow me on Twitter/X @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, and until next time fellow BK Bukowskis and Bathshebas, 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 get a Grab taxi back to Bangkok from Pattaya, your average Ptown cab driver will get lost. Keep an eye on him once you’re in the city, otherwise you’ll end up in Ayutthaya.
