Hey bros, how’s ya bits danglin’? Mine are overworked. It turns out a pandemic makes for a lot of broke gogo dancers who then pump Seven’s pump for cash. I’m literally and groinally spent. My regular harem are all leaning on me in order to survive, and now a slew of new girls are scratching at the door for whatever’s left over after paying everyone’s rent.
There are silver linings to these cumulonimbus cock-grabbers. Namely the happy surprises, eg. My newest recruit, it turns out, is an excellent dick masseuse. A few days ago when I was too exhausted to perform the deed, I handed her a bottle of oil and announced I’d be taking a nap, and she was to do whatever she thought she should with what I gave her and what God gave me. And wham! Our lives changed forever. She approached my johnson with the kind of reverence that all American women should approach one but none do Never had a lesson—just knows where to press and caress. She’s a keeper. Also my favorite girl has started visiting twice as often and we’re really making the most of it. She’s thrown herself into coitus like an 80s action star in a weapons-arming montage. I’ve re-nicknamed her the Terminator.
In other news, it seems that whilst I was trapped on my mom’s living room sofa for 4 months I forgot how to feed myself. Every night this week I’ve fucked up dinner. Here’s how:
After getting home from work, I either dilly-dally too long at home or am kept waiting by a late-arriving harem girl, and end up heading out for food after 19.00, already starving and headachy from lack of nutrients. I never have a destination in mind, so I simply head Pongward, peeking into restaurant windows to see if anything looks tasty, which it never does. Most nights, I end up wandering to the deli counter in Foodland for the last 59-baht prewrapped sandwich on the counter, and then I eat it in one of the gogos. If there are none left, I head with determination to either Bouchon, Roadhouse, or French Kiss for an obscenely expensive but decadent, delicious and filling meal for 2,000 baht. Quite a price difference there. The last couple of nights, I’ve found a happy middle-ground in the chicken Caesar salad at Shenanigan’s. But clearly, I need to put more thought into where and when I eat and for how much.
Before I forget, I have a message to the expat mongers out there who may be avoiding the red-light districts. The Post is reporting that the Thai government plans to allow select tourists in beginning in October, so you’ve got one more month of fish-in-barrel gogo hopping before a tidal wave of sex-starved horndogs completely monopolize all the vajay in Nana, Cowboy, and Patpong. So get out at get you some while there’s still some gettin’ to get got. Quick pro tip: Most regulars don’t get out at the start of the week, so demand for you is highest between Monday and Wednesday.
In a weird twist, I’ve started drinking Chivas in XXX Lounge. Before this week, I could count the times I’d had whiskey on one hand. But we all must adapt to a changing world. When XXX was the Steakhouse (Good God, how I miss the Steakhouse!), I’d smoke a nice Cuban cigar with a glass of Port and Shiraz chaser. Today, there’s no more Port and no such chaser, so I’m relegated to the next best thing. So far, it’s working out well. I brought some mini Liga Privadas from the States, and some Honey-Bourbon Backwoods. When I hit up the latter, I find that the bar staff sidle up close and linger, taking whiffs of the smoke with a kind of embarrassed relish. Who’d have thought a cheap cigar that you can get at any 7-11 in the US would garner such admiration on the opposite side of the planet?
During the previous week, I saw off and on more punters in the gogos, but no one like Seven. No one but Seven has his ass in the booth every single night, rain or shine. Between dance rotations the girls, with no one to talk to, turn to their phones—either baiting hooks for future customers or reassuring their Thai boyfriends that they’re not barfining, which happens to be true for once.
The Thai-centric bratwurst truck that set up shop across from Patpong a week ago is gone already. Fare thee well Bratbox, we hardly knew ye. Except that I called my college girlfriend bratbox. On account of her box took on my brat.
On Saturday, the Patpong Museum hosted a film night in Club Black. The film: Apocalypse Now! The previous Saturday in the same location, the same said museum held the awards ceremony for its photography contest, “Patpong Twilight.” It was mostly attended by Thais, who afterward were given coupons for free booze in other sites run by the Patpong Warriors—namely Black Pagoda, XXX Lounge, and Bar-Bar fetish club, where some interesting bondage shows were going on, and which the audience soaked up with rapt solemnity. They also hit up the gogos to mingle with the dancers and take Instagram pics.
Earlier that day I swung into Shenanigan’s for a Sunday roast. I got the lamb per usual. At the next table over sat a Farang with his slightly overweight hi-so Thai girlfriend and her friend, who carried on a conversation for half an hour while ignoring the farang, except to shush him with a snap of her fingers every time he tried to speak. I was astounded. I’d forgotten that women like her exist, and can’t remember the last time one dared to disrespect me like that. Whether it was spinelessness or self-control that kept him from bouncing her head off the table, I couldn’t say.
In more good news for Seven, there’s a continuing trend of hot gogo dancers who, pre-Covid, thought themselves too good for me who are now suddenly warmed to the idea of getting naked in my apartment. It seems word has gotten round that being a member of Seven’s harem has its perks, and previous ungettables are suddenly clamoring for a tryout like it’s fucking X-Factor.
In more bad news, it seems some farang are still bringing their kids to Patpong in strollers late at night. It their defense, maybe they thought there’d be less debauchery on the soi, what with all the closures. Still, there’s no excuse to ever bring your foreign children to a RLD. That’s just bad parenting.
And that about does it for this week’s ongoing goings on on Patpong. Gogos continue to struggle. Customers continue to to stay away. The only real winners seem to be Seven and his parade of pole dancers whose bills are paid straight from his bank account. You’re welcome girls, and also thank you. Let’s raise a glass for those tireless hip thrusters and their barely-clad hind quarters. You’re what makes the world go round. Cheers, babies. Seven loves you all.