La Red-Light Danse Sans Regret

October 4, 2020 By bangkok7

La Red-Light Danse Sans Regret

Bonjour, netsurfer. My name is Bangkok Seven, and this is my blog, the main topic of which is Patpong, hence the name. Today, mes amies—and don’t ask me why I’m using French, maybe it’s because of time recently spent in Le Bouchon or perhaps its due to my new affinity for the character of Frenchie in Season 2 of The Boys, given his penchant for Asian ladies—today I’d like to tell you about The Dance. Specifically, the Red-Light Dance every monger must perform if he is to survive long in this harsh, unforgiving environment. It’s a delicate dance, between the freedom, fun, and frolic inherent in the gogo life, and the quicksand of emotional attachment—an ironic yet constant temptation.

The RLD, she can be cruel. One minute, you’re flying high on a cloud of lusty pleasure, bounding from one silicone breast to another, bouncing a lovely bikini-clad lass on your knee, flirting and flitting betwixt a bevy of voluptuous vixens with your hands down the front of all their pants. But if one is not careful, the next minute could see that same said savage saddled with a girlfriend, wife, and/or babymama, his dreams of bachelorhood shattered, his wings clipped, his balls clamped, his hopes dashed like so many discarded VHS porno tapes.

If he doesn’t steel himself against the wiles and wantonness of the women he woos in the dark corners of the gogo, he may inadvertently find himself inextricably bound in one form or other to just one of these sirens. And if you happen to be one of those types who is deliberately seeking monogamy (though I’d question your choice of fishing hole), I don’t mean to disparage your endeavor. But for those of us who’ve committed to a life of harems—lions of the pride, so to speak—the dance between keeping the girls hooked on the line and not getting pulled out of the boat ourselves can be—well—tricky. I can personally attest to more than a few attempts by girls to trap me in relationships through a variety of means, including obligation, adoration, expectation, and alleged pregnancy. Thus far, I’ve been able to dodge the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune and remain stolidly, stoically untethered. Let me tell you how.

Without fail, every Thai lovely who has crossed my headboard, from short-time bargal to long-term harem holdover has asked Seven why he isn’t married and/or doesn’t have a girlfriend. And for 10 years, my answer has been the same: “Seven can’t commit because he has no heart.” And when, after a year or so of loyal haremdom, an expectant hanger-on inevitably asks why she can’t be my girlfriend, I remind her what I told her at the start of our boudoir adventure (boudointure for short, copyright BKK7)—Seven mai sonjai powah Seven mai me huajai. And that’s usually where the conversation ends. On a few occasions, however, a curious and/or stubborn lass will press the issue, as if I’m somehow faking that I don’t want a relationship. At that point, I sit them down on the edge of the bed and quietly tell the tale of the horrid farang witch who, before Seven ever set foot in Thailand, tore out his heart and stomped on it, leaving it irrevocably ruined and permanently unusable. This is, of course, a lie.

Not the part about a horrid farang witch tearing my heart out—that happened. But it’s not the reason I refuse to commit. In fact, the memory of that white she-devil rarely even crosses my mind. Why would she, in a playground of Asian delights like TLOS? And if I’m honest, I never actually loved said farang, either. No, the truth is, Seven suffers from something called Reactive Attachment Disorder—self-diagnosed with the help of Google. It’s a psychological affliction caused by maternal abandonment during infancy. Symptoms include an inability to love family members while at the same time attaching too soon and too easily to strangers—a habit that characterized my entire adolescence and early adulthood. It can be treated through years of therapy, or as I found out, by moving to Thailand, where I’ve surrounded myself with a veritable Baskin Robbins-level variety of sweet souls to sate my salacity. Ludacris has hoes in different area codes. I’ve got galpals in all red-light locales.

I’d be lying, however, if I said I hadn’t been tempted toward Thai tandemnity on rare occasions. In my first two years in-country, whilst dug-in like a tick in Ao Nang, I became hopelessly attached to a bargirl, having not yet cast off my foolish American notion of relationships. In the end, she shunned me for someone younger and more handsome, freeing me of that burden. Then some years later, the goddess Ploy from Electric Blue was so sweet and so lovely and had such great tits that I nearly popped the question. Thankfully, her Thai bf (or was it me?) knocked her up and she disappeared into the fields of Isaan. Most recently, I’ve fallen into such a state of noncombative compatibility (nonconbatability for short, copyright BKK7) with my current number 1 harem girl that the thought often crosses my mind to wrangle her, tie her down, and make her my solitary stable mare. But then I think about the kind of Mission Impossible level of spy tactics it would require to continue my dangerous liaisons with the rest of my roster, combined with the immutable truth that she can never be trusted, and I recant. Nevertheless, she has taken it upon herself to calling herself my girlfriend, to my constant protestations. But she hasn’t tried to force fidelity on me, so I suppose it doesn’t hurt to let her dream. And the truth is, I do love her—just in my own way. It’s not the “I love you ergo I want to be with you and only you” kind. It’s the “I love you and also half a dozen other girls” kind. And yes, mofo, that is a kind of love. It’s watered-down love. Like a glass of Chivas on the rocks in an outdoor Bangkok bar. Anyway, it’s the best I can do. Maybe that’ll change in the future.

In the meantime, I continue to amass notches on my old, half-hard bedpost with a daily increasing fear of the grim reaper. Maybe it’s because I’m approaching 50, but lately I’ve been thinking about the inevitable icy grip of death, seeing every female conquest as possibly my last. It’s been on my mind so much that last week I even began writing my obituary, along with a list of possible epitaphs. I submit them below for your bemusement:

They all begin with “Here lies Bangkok Seven…

…a wasted talent.” Or,

…he strove for greatness, achieved two minor successes and 48 resounding failures.” Or,

…he was bad at everything except making women orgasm.” Or,

…he lived like a king on a pauper’s salary.” Or,

…he bedded 300 women, none of them fat.” Or,

…finally no longer horny.” Or,

…he smoked, drank, and slept with whores. The rest of his life was a complete waste.” Or,

…he died how he lived: writhing naked on top of a gogo dancer.” Or,

…100% grudges, 0% forgiveness.”

As for the obituary, it would go something like this:

“Bangkok Seven was found in his bed after having been dead for several days. The cause is an apparent heart attack. Condolences to his family and the family of the tiny gogo dancer found smothered beneath him.”

Or,

“Bangkok Seven died last week from penis overuse at the age of 90. His funeral was attended by a handful of friends and approximately 1,000 Thai women ranging in age from 18 to 40. He is survived by his harem and 112 half-Thai children he never met.”

At least, dear reader, I hope to be so lucky. Tune in next week for something less self-indulgent and between now and then, cheers to every single gogo dancer and bar girl in Thailand, and the guys who keep them in knock-off Gucci and fancy acrylic nails. You may not be pimps or daddies, but you’re all pimp-daddies. Peace out.