The Best Laid Plans of Vice and ‘Ven, or How Bar Girls Can Ruin Seven’s Day

Bar girls—or, you know, whatever you want to call them—gogo dancers—are like cats. They’re sleek, nimble, and impossible to train. No wait—I can think of a better simile.  Gogo dancers (bar girls) are like hurricanes. They’re wet, they’re loud, and they go where the wind blows them. Hmmm. That’s not quite right. Let’s see……Gogobargirls are like roller coasters. Lots of ups, downs, twists and turns, and the best you can hope for is to hold on tight and enjoy the ride.


Hang on, I’ve lost track of my point.



This is a blog about Thai gogo dancers-slash-bar girls, and how you can’t plan your day at all if it includes one of them, and whatever plans you do make will be ruined. Because these girls are like cats. They do what they want when they want and don’t give a shit about your schedule. OK, now I’m back on it.

I’m a man of simple pleasures.  Food, wine, cigars, beers, 80s Britpop. Oh, and young, lithe Thai women. Needless to say the most expensive of these is the latter, and I do devote most of my easily-earned cash to the lovely creatures that grip the poles of Bangkok’s various gogo bars. I don’t mind at all. God bless them, every one. If I could give them more, I would. They are delightful, wondrous, endearing, heart-melting goddesses. What they are not is punctual.


Blame it on “Thai time,” blame it on their work hours, blame it on the boogie. Whatever the reason, Thai girls can’t make it anywhere on time, and this all but ruins my life. Because I keep a very strict schedule when I’m not working: wake up, work a bit on the computer, do laundry, surf Youtube, eat, make the daytime rounds in Patpong to catch up with folks, head home to shower and change, and hit the red-light by 7 pm. So when one of my harem messages to say she’s coming over, I rework my whole existence around her and the specific time she says she will arrive. This is stupid, I know, but look: I’m not gonna turn her down. So then, I have to make my apartment presentable, set out fresh sheets and towels, hide all evidence of the previous girl, pop a precautionary Cialis (because at my age you never know), and properly groom my groin (called “groiming” for short, copyright BangkokSeven). And even though I know she’ll probably be late, I still have to be ready for her on the slim chance she actually shows up when she says she will. So I often end up sitting around my place with my pristine balls flapping in the breeze of the fan in a state of sexual limbo, waiting on this or that girl to come fulfill her destiny.

And some girls are later than others. One of my faves habitually turns up 3 hours late half the time. It’s positively maddening, because it means that whatever I had planned for afterward has to be scrapped. Last week, the girl in question managed to ruin my entire Saturday. Here’s how it went down:

She messaged around 11 am to say she was coming over at 5. Awesome, I thought. I can get ready, work a little, and do an afternoon Patpong run before she arrives. I popped down to Shenanigans around 2, and a couple buddies were there having a beer. They wanted to do a “Red Light Day to Night” session but I declined. I stayed for one, apologizing and explaining I had a hottie on the way, and swung by The Steakhouse Co. on the way home. They weren’t open yet, but I chatted to Alex the manager for a bit about their new wines by the glass. They were cooking up the prime rib for later, so I told him to reserve a spot for me at 7. I arrived back home at 4 and spent the hour cleaning my room and myself, then plopped down at my computer at exactly 5 pm, poised and ready. I put on a Bill Burr compilation and played a few games of solitaire.  When 6 pm rolled around. I texted the girl. She replied that it was raining at her house. 30 minutes later I messaged again. She said she was waiting for the taxi. 30 minutes later I messaged again. No answer. Then I dozed off. When I woke up it was 7:30. I texted again. She said she was en route. One hour later, she finally arrived. By that time I was wilting like a hothouse flower. I made short work of her, sent her on her way, and rushed down to the Steakhouse. Too late, they’d sold out of the prime rib. I was crushed. I went next door to Foodland and had a sad plate of fried rice instead.

Is it worth the headache? Of course. Would it make life 1,000% better if a Thai girl could just show up when she’s supposed to? Yes. Is there a goddam thing I can do about it? Yes, I can piss and moan on the internet. But even as I vent my frustration, I must admit that this is a “Thailand problem” (hashtag thailandproblems) meaning that compared to life in the West, it’s not an actual problem. In California, I would register as a non-entity in the minds of every woman above a 3 on the beauty scale, so really I have nothing at all to complain about. Except, you know, I missed the prime rib.

You know what, now that I say it out loud, my winging sounds pretty pathetic. I tell you what: just forget I said anything. Thai girls, please try harder to be on time. End of diatribe. If you’re lucky enough to live in the greatest country on Earth (Thailand), count your blessings and raise a glass: cheers to another day above ground and in the gogo, folks. Life is good.