New Diddy texts reveal escort's 'instructions' for getting to multi-day freak-offs where they'd have sex 'like rabbits'
New evidence in Sean ' Diddy ' Combs' trial has unearthed text messages between an escort and the rapper's associate, giving him detailed instructions on how to get to and from one of the marathon freak-offs.
Combs' sex-trafficking trial began last month and the latest bombshell is that a male escort named Jules was texting with a Diddy associate to arrange his travel, according to documents shared as part of the court record.
It's not known who the Diddy associate is, as the screenshots of the text conversation only identifies the person as 'device owner.'
In messages dated on August 26, 2009, 'device owner' asked Jules if he wanted to fly from Los Angeles to New York City for the freak-off.
Jules was promised a 'tip' since the request was so last minute, according to the documents.
A mere two minutes later, Jules replies back accepting the offer.
The 'device owner' then texts the travel information to Jules, giving him the information about the Virgin America flight from LAX to John F. Kennedy International Airport.
The mysterious Diddy scheduler also tells Jules to reach out when he's ready to book his return flight.
In messages dated on August 26, 2009, the Diddy associate known only as 'device owner' asked Jules if he wanted to fly from Los Angeles to New York City for the freak-off.
In this batch of messages, Jules says the people presumably involved in the freak-off are 'rabbits'
In subsequent text messages between Jules and 'device owner' in December 2009, Jules appears to be trying to set up an alibi for himself so his girlfriend wouldn't find out about his alleged activities with Diddy
Once Jules got to New York early the next morning on August 27, he texted the 'device owner' that he arrived and would be headed to his hotel room to shower and clean up.
About an hour after that, the 'device owner' texted Jules to come to room 4901 and Jules responded 'OK.'
Presumably after the freak-off, Jules texted around 2:45pm on August 27 that he wanted a flight to be arranged back to Los Angeles.
The 'device owner' said that would be done, but not before Jules came back up to the room. He was wanted back in an hour.
Jules responded that he need a little more rest than one hour and asked if that would be okay. He joked that hadn't slept in two days and added that 'u guys r rabbits lol.'
'Lol, Ok hit me when you wake. Sorry bro. No stress. U let me know,' the 'device owner' replied back.
Almost four hours later at 7:45pm, Jules texted that he was coming to the room. Fifteen minutes after that, he writes that he was 'at the door knocking' and to let him know 'if u are there.'
At 8:10pm, Jules assumes that occupants of the hotel room 'stepped out.'
The 'device owner' finally gets back to him at 8:21pm and says, 'OK come up.'
In subsequent text messages between Jules and 'device owner' in December 2009, Jules appears to be trying to set up an alibi for himself so his girlfriend wouldn't find out about his alleged activities with Diddy.
'Can u shoot me a text just saying you guys will be somewhere else this weekend so i can show her?' Jules asks on December 8.
After some further correspondence, Jules tells 'device owner' that 'it worked.' He then offered which days he was available.
In the texts, they don't call what's going on a freak-off, rather they call it a 'party.'
Combs has been charged with racketeering conspiracy, two charges of sex trafficking and two charges of transportation to engage in prostitution.
Prosecutors claim Diddy coerced victims into drug-fueled sex parties using sex and violence. The rapper has denied all the accusations, saying all the sex acts were consensual.
The new text evidence against the former music mogul came after a damning day in court on Thursday, when prosecutors introduced a tranche of photos from the March 2024 raid on Diddy's in the Holmby Hills area of Los Angeles.
Jurors saw pictures of high-powered rifles, drugs and hundreds of bottles of baby oil.
Investigators also found bags containing ketamine, which were also photographed as evidence.
The pictures show bottles of baby oil neatly lined in display cabinets, while dozen of boxes of the lubricant were also found stacked in the home.
Defense Attorney Marc Agnifilo has said the star likes to 'buy in bulk like any other American' and claimed Combs participated in consensual sex.
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Sign up to Five Great Reads Each week our editors select five of the most interesting, entertaining and thoughtful reads published by Guardian Australia and our international colleagues. Sign up to receive it in your inbox every Saturday morning after newsletter promotion It is years after my conversation with Hayley that I ask for the file. Another hot day, in another December. It feels urgent and important in that moment but I can't explain why. A repurposed manila folder, a thick White-Out block on one side and, over the top, my dad's pointed handwriting: ROBBERY. Inside there is a subpoena for my mother to appear in court. We command you to attend, it begins. It includes the man's name and the charges against him. I wait to feel something. Burglary (eight counts); Aggravated burglary (one count); false imprisonment (one count); indecent assault with aggravating circumstances (one count); armed robbery (one count); damaging property (one count); theft (one count). I wait, and wait, and wait (three counts) and feel nothing. His name is underwhelming. I feel almost embarrassed to see it. It is boring. There is nothing that hints at the violence it contains. It's comical in its ordinariness. After I see it, I Google his name on my phone. No trials appear in the search. No burglaries. A LinkedIn profile for a plastics CEO in Alabama is the first result. A news article about a sculptor. An obituary for a cinematographer. I check to make sure I have spelt his name correctly and giggle because I realise I have searched for a completely different person. First name. Middle name. Last name. All completely wrong. In the time it took for me to look away from the subpoena and search for him, I have given him a new identity. I look at my mother's statement, typed and faded. The one that has been in my father's red filing cabinet for 39 years. The drawers that creak when they're opened, the lock that doesn't quite work. My mother was 39 when it happened, and it is 39 years later that I read her statement. I don't know what this means. Her statement talks about arriving to our house. How she parked in the garage and Hayley and I ran inside first. How she collected armfuls of shopping and then came inside with them. I picture plastic bags digging into her forearms, leaving a mark, the garage closing behind her. I try to picture my mother at the age of 39 but can't. I can only picture her the age she is now. My image of her constantly updating, overriding the previous versions of her. Her written statement describes the way Hayley and I were playing piano in the lounge room. And I can hear the clank of keys. The laughter. And as we were playing, how she was grabbed by the wrists. The way she struggled. Fought back. Was thrown to the floor. And I can hear her chirp, her scream. In her statement it says he held a yellow screwdriver, its shank to her neck. There is no mention of a balaclava. My mother is chirping, like a small bird. I laugh. What a fun game. And when I run through the house to find her, there is a man with a screwdriver to her throat. Also in the statement: the things she said. The things he did. The things she pleaded with him not to do. And yet I still feel nothing. Blank. As if I am reading about someone else and not my mother. Which doesn't make sense actually because when I do read about these things in the news, I feel waves of anger. I feel instant rage, my body prickly with heat. In the statement she described his hands. A plain gold ring on the third finger of his right hand. Wide hands. Short, fat fingers. The hand which held a yellow screwdriver to her neck. It is these hands that make me feel something. Rising bile. I picture them hairy, though there is no mention of this. I have invented it. And in the days that follow, this is the image that returns to me. Wide hands, short, fat fingers. Hairy knuckles. My breath catches and I count to slow it. Three counts in. One. Two. Three. Three counts out. One. Two. Three. We moved house straight after the robbery. I do not remember the layout of the original house. The colour of its walls. The feel of it. I remember the house we moved into afterwards. Its brown laminate benches. The way the front door swivelled. The sound of the rain on the skylight. The tread of the carpet. There are memories that I have that don't belong to me. My parents and my brothers lived in San Diego before I was born. I remember the sound of their voices, the cereals they ate, their visit to Disneyland, that time my middle brother almost drowned and was pulled out of the pool by his curly hair. I know these memories as my own, constructed from stories repeated around the dinner table and photos yellowed around their edges. Their hand-me-down toys and their hand-me-down clothes and their hand-me-down memories. Before the trial my mother was told to stick to the facts. That after the man was arrested, he told the police that he would not contest anything if they were fair with him. I know what 'stick to the facts' meant, she said. Do not be hysterical. Do not play the victim. I roll the memory of the robbery around in my mind, try to press it like a bruise until I can feel something. Wait for the ache of it. But it's dull, out of reach. I play with the memory and change it. I open my bedroom door. I run to her. I scream. I flail my arms. I bite and kick. My four-year-old self. Or I don't. I am quiet and I tiptoe to the phone, and I call the police. I do something. Anything. But that is not what happened. Stay in your room. Do not come out. I write his name in a note in my phone. I scroll back. My car registration. Our alarm code. Our wi-fi password. Another password that belongs to something I can't place. An old shopping list. Canned tomatoes. Red wine. Writing-related questions: Staring at magpies so they don't swoop you. They remember your face. Is this true? I never checked. The robbery. It's there. Between the magpie and a shopping list. A years-old note to self. The robbery. And again, as I scroll down. A Joan Didion quote, an idea for a character, a podcast recommendation, notes from a doctor's appointment, words without context: Longing (for what?). And The robbery, the robbery, The Robbery. Sometimes capitalised. Sometimes not. I look at his name. The last entry. First name. Middle name. Last name. I hold my thumb down on the screen. Press on his name. Four options appear: Mark as completed. Deadline. Priority. Delete. I press delete. I let the other reminders stay there. The robbery, the robbery, The Robbery. I will continue to forget his name. I don't know if I ever owned a dollhouse. My feet will continue to tingle when I see a blue van. This is an edited version of The Chirp/The Scream which appeared in Australian Book Review's June issue as runner-up in the 2025 Calibre essay prize. You can read the essay in its entirety here
