May 19, 2019 By bangkok7
Hey everyone, it’s me, Seven. For this week’s weekly, I’m comin atcha with a first-person narrative of my Saturday-to-Sunday in Patpong. As you may or may not know, I’m there roughly 30 days out of the month, and occasionally something noteworthy happens. Here’s my account of the last seven days:
The Lord’s Day is typically a slow one on the Pong, so I’d planned instead to hit Nana. But when push came to shove, I couldn’t work up the energy to travel that far. Nana simply isn’t as good a time. So I Ponged, and things were pretty quiet, but most of my regular girls were working so it was still a good time. I popped over to Pink Panther to see Bee, but she wasn’t there. She rarely works these days. So I struck up a conversation with a new girl—tall, big smile, back tattoo. I bought her a whiskey and Coke, got her Line ID and told her to come over next week. We took turns massaging each other’s genitals as Bee’s friends looked on disapprovingly. Then I bailed and went to King’s Castle 1. A dude walked in with horrific cysts on his face and neck. He was sheepish at first, but over time he settled in and began to enjoy the non-judgmental vibe of the gogo. I felt great admiration for him having the courage to come out and monger, and prayed to the gods of Patpong that some sweet girl would take the time to give him the human contact he yearned for. The fact that none of the dancers recoiled, or laughed at him, or ignored him is a testament to their kindness. I love these chicks. Later in the week, while drinking wine on The Steakhouse Co. terrace I saw a guy with only one hand walk into Bada Bing. It’s inspiring that a place like Patpong exists, where dudes who would have slim chances with girls in their home country can come and get lucky.
I ran into Taitle on Soi 2. She was positively ecstatic about having just watched the latest Avengers movie, and talked incessantly about it, including the flavor of popcorn she got. You’d think she just came back from Disneyland. It reminded me that, apart from work, a lot of these girls rarely even get out of the house.
The owner at Thigh Bar texted to let me know that he’d restocked the fridge with Belgian beers and had a few new faces onstage, so I slipped in for a Witte and an ogle. They’ve got a nice nest of cuties working there.
In Black Pagoda, Saa and Best hit me up for dinner money. I’m always happy to donate to the stripper food fund, but not until after I’ve had a bit of slap and tickle. The girls know they must earn the cash by enduring my groping hands, so after a bit of pussy grabbing, titty shaking, and small kisses, I folded 100 baht into their bras and they scampered off to the noodle joint downstairs. I then walked over to Bada Bing where I have several hooks in the water, to see if any girls were biting. So far, no joy, but that’s OK. I’ve done this long enough now to know you can’t rush things. Just because you want to bang a certain girl immediately doesn’t mean she reciprocates your sense of urgency. You gotta lay back, play it cool, be aloof, devil-may-care. It’s the aphrodisiac for a gogo dancer. So I tweaked a couple nipples, smacked a few asses, and then bailed over to The Steakhouse Co. for a Cuban cigar, a dram of port, and a glass of Malbec. The perfect nightcap for Seven. Although, I’m pretty sure I stopped into The Strip before heading home, but my memory of the post-cigar events are……fuzzy.
I was champing at the bit so hard to start ponging that I arrived too early. None of the gogos were open, so I swung into The Steakhouse Co for some Prosecco, knowing I’d be back later for something darker. One good thing about being onpong early is, you get to see the soi come to life. I sat on the terrace and watched the girls arriving for work, exchanging wai’s and blowing kisses. Another good thing about ponging early is the 50 baht happy hour special at Glamour. Nuiy was in rare form. In certain gogo uniforms, she’s so utterly stunning that a man must catch his breath. Tonight was one of those nights. She sported daisy-dukes that were so small they barely covered her naughty bits, a white a spaghetti strap crop-top, and black bra. Holy Moses, what a sight. Her bone and muscle structures are positively perfect. She looks like she was made by engineers in a sex factory. I have to wait till her dance shift finishes before I can leave the gogo, otherwise I’ll have to walk out at half-mast.
After Glamour I headed to Kiss, because they usually open early. Actually, they open when I walk in, as I’m typically their first customer. When I arrived, the house lights were up, the music was off, and the girls were either putting on makeup or curling their hair. The mamasan saw me, barked a few syllables, and before I got to my seat the lights were down, my playlist was roaring, my beer of choice was poured and waiting, and three girls were onstage. Half a dozen or so of the Kiss roster are good friends of mine, and when they’re not pumping other customers for drinks, they like to sit with me and shoot the breeze. Or rather, they babble on about meaningless things while I grope them under their clothes. Two of them are supposed to come over next week for a double-whammy naked ninja shoot. But they’ve flaked before, so I’m not holding my breath.
After Kiss I made my usual rounds—Panther, Kings, Pagoda, Bing, Strip. Nothing noteworthy on that route that night, except that all the girls were friendly, all the cocktails were strong, and my heart was filled with joy. The night ended with a glass of primitivo and a cheese-and-charcuterie plate at The Steakhouse.
It rained on Tuesday, which meant my Tuesday bedroom playmate flaked, and Patpong was nearly empty. A few of the night market vendors were so desperate for a sale, they actually hit me up to buy something, and the girls clamored for drinks. Even ones I didn’t know weren’t shy about begging. I’m used to unfamiliar girls wai’ing and knowing my name, but asking for a drink when we’ve never even banged is pretty ballsy.
I now have a small problem at Pink Panther, having managed to create a love triangle between me, Bee, and the girl from Sunday (who now texts me regularly every frigging morning). Some of the other girls must’ve told Bee that, in her absence, I flirted with someone else because she leaped from the stage into my lap the minute I sat down and didn’t leave my side. Girl number two watched sheepishly over her friends shoulder, and when we made eye contact, she gave me a stern yet half-smiling scowl that said “I’m mad, jealous, turned-on, happy to see you, and sad to be twat-blocked” all in one expression—something only a Thai gogo dancer can pull off. Bee can stake a claim on me, of course. I’ve been banging her for nearly 5 years. But whenever she decides not to come to work, which is often, now at least I have another gal-pal to assuage my boredom in Panther.
I stayed home. After a month straight of Ponging. Oil came over for some bedroom Olympics.
The number of girls at Kings 1 who now expect a drink and a junk grab has increased from two to five. It’s my fault. After getting bored with my first string, I started in heavy-petting a new girl and her giant fake tits, and rekindled my ass pinching habit with two veterans who I’d previously given up on. It’s amazing how economic circumstances can turn a once cold-hearted wench into a soft, inviting cuddler. At any rate, I’m now inundated with boobs and crotches there. I’m not gonna lie, it’s pretty fun.
After that, I went backstage at Black Pagoda to hang out with the off-duty girls. It’s fascinating to see the contrast between how they act on the pole versus how they are behind closed doors. In some ways, it’s the same. Friendly, casual, quick to laugh, living in the moment. In other ways, they’re very different. They let their guard down a bit, they stop forcing sexiness to ooze from every pore, and they clearly stop caring what a man thinks. It’s the gogo dancer equivalent of when a guy comes home, plops onto the sofa and shoves one hand into the waistband of his boxers. I pilfered some of their beer and then went to the bar for my usual.
After that, I closed out the night with Kilkenny and a Midnight in the Gaarden at Shenanigan’s.
After a quick house-call from my old friend Kikkai, I went straight to The Steakhouse for a glass of Syrah. Alex and I talked French terroir for a bit, and we both lamented that we’d never been to Bordeaux. He showed me a really nice Beaujolais from their cellar, and I made up my mind to go to Gourmet Market at the weekend to shop for something special.
As I passed by The Paddy Field to say hello to their excellent staff and throw down a happy hour pint, I noticed the outdoor Katoey beer bar across from them was closed. After asking around a bit, I got the skinny: closed due to lack of customers. To re-open soon as a—drumroll please—gay bar. Imagine my non-surprise.
That required some cheering up, so I sped over to Thigh Bar just long enough to guzzle a Witte and pull some bikini bottoms off some girls (sadly, if very recent rumors about Thigh are true, it might be the last time I–or any of us–do that for a while). After that, GlamourPagodaPanther and then Kings 1 to bounce my girls on my knees. And then, Bada Bing to sit stageside and spank some asses.
Saturday was Visakha Bucha day. May came by to service my junk and clean my apartment.
On two separate occasions this week in two separate bars, the waitress took my drink before I was finished. It’s a small thing, but it really grinds my gears. Something in their brain says “Well, he paid the check-bin, so I guess he’s done.” Uh, no. No. No, I paid so I could leave once my drink was finished, not the other way around. I mean, there’s at least two swigs left in the glass. Use your head! Of course, I didn’t say any of that. I just smiled and quietly exited.
On three separate occasions this week, a white knight beta male tourist attempted to intervene as I gently harassed various girls in various gogos. Here’s the gist: in every gogo on Patpong, there are a handful of dancers that I’ve known for years. Many of them are friends I used to bang or am still banging. Most of them owe me money or have stood me up at some point in the last month, so when I see them I give them a bit of a hard time. This usually consists of tickling, wet willies, crotch grabbing, or hair-pulling, bra-snapping. I’m never overtly mean, and the girls take it in stride, especially since I tip them afterward. And I suppose to the ignorant onlooker, it probably appears menacing. But every tourist, no matter how stupid, should follow this cardinal rule: if you’re in a red-light district thousands of miles from home in a culture you know nothing about, you should mind your own business. Gogo dancers don’t need you to save them, and if they really were in trouble, the bar security would step in. The fact that they’re not—the fact that they’re wai’ing me instead—should be an indicator that no one’s in any danger. And fair warning: if I’ve had a few too many and a stranger puts his hands on me, I get stabby. Luckily, things didn’t come to that in any of the three instances. But stupidity among the ranks of the unwashed masses seems to be an increasing problem. Just putting that out there.
All in all, a pretty typical week in the Pong. And with rumors swirling of a tourist-friendly disco coming to Soi 1 and the imminent creation of the upstairs billiards and darts floor above Shenanigans, the Pong is feeling positively homey these days. Not to mention The Steakhouse Co.’s upcoming birthday buffet on June 1st. It’s going to be epic.
That’s it for now. Tune in on Friday for the Frowback, and cheers to another seven days above ground in the greatest country on Earth—Thailand.