An Experience With The Diddy Monster

This past November, I wrote an article here as a reaction to the Cassie/Diddy story. My hopes for his monumental downfall were tempered at that time because I knew he would settle the lawsuit as fast as he could because the longer it hung out there, the bolder other people would become, and after years of silence, the legions of those he had betrayed, hurt, and used were many. They would have their say and a satisfying, sometimes therapeutic taste of long overdue revenge if given a chance. It was why I wrote that story, and it is why I revisit it today. I don't feel done exposing him, so here I am again.

Sean Combs' nefarious behavior permeated New York City's hip-hop scene during the 1990s and the 2000s, and you were hard-pressed to find someone who didn't have an opinion about him and Bad Boy Records. He behaved without fear of retribution or exposure; he did what he wanted, and no one said anything against him. At least not publicly. Yet anyone who spent time socializing in those circles heard the gossip, the stories of violence, illegal dealings, depravity, bisexual down low creeping, abuse of power, and his malevolence toward competition or rejection. I am going to tell you a little about my personal dealings with him beyond the shooting incident. 

I want to lay a few things out so that it paints a clear picture of how easy it was for me to stumble too close to him without meaning to do so. From time to time, I would remember him shooting his gun like it was a hazy dream. However, I only thought about him whenever I saw him somewhere in the media or told that crazy story at parties because it was so wild and bizarre; people's reactions always amused me. As he was known then, Puffy didn't figure anywhere in my life, I thought his raps were lame without Biggie, and I thought he was a pathological joke.

First, I want to explain that there are black cultural and social circles in New York that are insular and segregated. This society ranges from older, affluent black families, artists, writers, and professionals to entertainers, athletes, and media personalities. It was not unusual to go to a black-owned upscale restaurant and see directors, a superstar athlete, a TV star, writers, musicians, entrepreneurs, fashion models, politicians, journalists, music executives, and other successful figures in the black community. Not one person there would be white, maybe Afro-Latino, but that was it. I was introduced to it through the African American side of my family. They are New Yorkers centered in Harlem, Manhattanites, and very entrenched in black NYC and culture. I had a group of cousins who took me under their wings and opened up a new world for me. 

Hip-hop clubs, record release parties, freestyle battles, label showcases, and shows were also places that were 99.8 percent black. The only time the above-described world and the hip-hop world overlapped was when a rapper also became a mogul and a legit businessman. Then, and only then, would they be allowed in higher social circles in the black community. He or she would have to wash off some of the streets or come clean about their middle-class upbringing, or be an alternative rapper with conscious lyrics and not songs about gangstas, bitches, and hos. 

I could break it down even further, but that isn't the point. Combs was a large presence by the time I met him again, with a seat at any table, and he had socialized with a wide set of people since he had a hot fashion label, Sean Jean, and beloved in the Hamptons when it was still somewhat exclusive. He was seen on yachts of billionaires and rubbing elbows with white socialites from the Upper Eastside. They liked having him around for the cool factor, liking the dangerous edge without having any clue as to what he did "across the tracks." 

Entering the scene was exciting for me; even though I didn't really fit in as a mixed-bag Northern Californian, I liked the attention I got for looking and being different, so I went with where it led me. Opportunities flooded my way, distracting me from my purpose, but I was all in for the ride. Until Diddy. I regret ever attracting his attention, ever mishandling it the way I did because I was very young and naive. I am not from the street, not a hardened hustler in the New York sense, not jaded, did not understand who I was rubbing elbows with, and didn't understand true cruelty or being in dangerous company. 

The next time I saw him after the shooting incident was at a talent showcase. I went with my friend B, who was a singer/actress from Detroit, the ex-girlfriend of an NBA player, and my partner in crime, along with my cousins, but B and I had a ritual. Go out, roll into the same pizza place at 3 AM, and dissect our evening. That night, she was on a date with this guy who worked at a label, and she invited me along because she wanted me to be a cock block, so the guy would know he wasn't getting any and so we could race to our pizza place later. I even remember our favorite toppings: onions, peppers, sausage, and olives.

We had a prime table because of the date; we were minding our own business when our server appeared with another server with a bucket and a bottle of champagne. No asking if we wanted it. I knew Mr. Date didn't drink and pretended to by ordering seltzer with lime; B was a vodka drinker, and so was I. It was expensive, but we were in a room full of music executives and entertainers with deep pockets, so anyone could have sent it, and it could have been for any number of reasons. You already know who it was. B and I rejected it against Mr. Date's advice. The server returned with it again. Yuck, we said, he's old. We laughed at the very idea! I waved it away like it was some kind of nasty cosmic joke. Stupidly, I was dramatic about it, rolling my eyes and shuddering. I laid it on thick, to B's delight. I had no clue I put myself on a shit list for my lack of interest and, much worse, for publicly embarrassing him. Who the fuck did I think I was?                                 

I want to make this clear. Being "chosen" or "picked out" by famous or wealthy powerful men is not an ego boost, nor should it be. You are being objectified and seen as someone who should be grateful to be noticed. In response, you should feel worthy and willing to do whatever they want you to do. You are a toy or a plaything or something to own. They are used to living in a society that rewards them for their success, and unfortunately, some women perpetuate this grossness by getting their self-esteem through their male gaze. If that male is not a good person, it doesn't matter because he is famous and rich and he chose you. This is how men like Andrew Tate operate, and this is why he is successful. They see your resistance as an obstacle, not a final answer; it can't possibly mean you aren't interested; you just need more incentive. 

So much went over my head; Mr. Date rushed us out like we were running from a fire. He dropped us off at B's, and she never heard from him again. We were angry that we didn't get to enjoy the show but moved on to something else and our end-of-the-night pizza. It was a nothing moment, and I thought it was the end. I wanted nothing to do with him; rumors aside, I had seen what he was like up close, and I thought he was repulsive and unattractive. I figured he wouldn't even remember me and would be on to some willing young starfucker, so I promptly forgot about it, not realizing that any time he saw me in the future, it would remind him of my intolerable rejection. It never occurred to me he would remember me, a nobody art student playing in a band who dipped into the hip-hop world sporadically.

Psychopaths like him are vengeful and will remember every slight, and their gigantic egos and sense of self can't recover unless they strike back hard enough to destroy. He was known not to allow eye contact or to be addressed directly; he was a notorious asshole who used thug tactics in business, allegedly holding a record executive out of a window to force him to sign a contract, beating up his mentor, and never paying his artists. If an artist wanted out of his or her terrible contract, he would hold them hostage so that they couldn't make any music or make better deals, rendering them unable to capitalize on their success. And there were whispers about drug dealing, abuse of minors and misogyny.

His behavior towards me was pure malevolence. I don't think he lost one second of sleep over me or thought about me, but if he saw me, he made sure to act, and I was rudely thrown out of numerous parties or clubs at his behest. Asked to leave was what the promoters, managers, handlers, or whoever claimed, but let's be real, the only time it happened was if he was in the same venue as me. At one point, it was nearly humorous because it was like-Oh, there's my nemesis(in those damn shades sometimes), time to go, no need, sir, I am already leaving. One video vixen/rapper girl who used to dress in different cammo body-con outfits, sometimes with a scarf tied around the bottom of her face, was in the bathroom with me once, both of us primping in the mirror, and she looked at me, "Girl, what did you do?"

Imagine a grown man picking on a teenager? He was flying high then, A list everything; he may have been with JLo; finally, after the harassment became a little more threatening(siccing his minions on me to insult me, purposely bump into me, and more), I decided to bow out. Plenty of times, I still had fun, but like any effective terrorist knows, all you have to do is plant the seed of dangerous uncertainty, and the human mind will do the rest. Even if he wasn't there, maybe he would be or could be, and I would feel dread. I have no doubt that was the point. I was one of a long list of people that pissed him off, and if he wanted to, he would retaliate in ways that sounded fantastical, which I thought were exaggerated at the time; now, though, I believe he is capable of anything. 

I wish I could say I stuck it out and won, but I didn't. I drifted out of the scene, away from some of my social friends, B, pizza nights, and all that innocent fun was over. B was looking for a career in that world, and she ended up on television once, playing a sultry Jill Scott-sounding singer. The very last time I saw her, we ran into each other in the Meatpacking District, I was with my close friend from art school, and it was awkward; it was two people who used to know each other and knew they were seeing each other for the last time. 

New York City's social scene thrives on random circles of people; some overlap, and some contain famous people. Mine did many times, and I hadn't looked for it. New York, unlike LA, isn't full of fame-hungry desperadoes, so they are part of the random circles, not as impressive or as special as they are made out to be. My circle collided with Diddy's, and as a result, I lost a lot, more than I care to share, but it led me down another path, and that winding, sometimes bumpy road led me to magic.