Artwork © DL Polonsky

 

Martinis for One, Mugshots for Another

The sun rose over Los Angeles and lit the lawn of the Playboy Mansion like it had something to confess. Inside, the air held perfume and smoke and the aftertaste of stories no one told in daylight. Hugh Hefner, the man in the robe, ruled here. Not for a few seasons. For decades. Almost a monarchy. Seventy years of parties, girls, deals, and silence.

They called it liberation. Women in silk. Men in tuxedos or less. Politicians came. Celebrities laughed. People swam nude in the moonlight. Nobody knocked. Nobody questioned. They said he was a cultural icon. They put him on covers, not cuffs.

Years later, when his body was in the ground and the martinis had dried, came the voices. Women said they were drugged. Abused. That the dream was a cage. The A&E docuseries Secrets of Playboy aired their truths. But the robe stayed on the hanger. The law never came for Hefner.

Now the cameras point at Sean “Diddy” Combs. Music mogul. Industry titan. The charges are dark: sex trafficking, racketeering, coercion. The stories echo those from the Mansion. The difference is in the outcome. One man walked unbothered. The other might not walk out again.

Hefner ran his empire longer than Combs has been alive. That’s not just longevity—it’s permission. He did in daylight what Combs is accused of doing in shadow. When Hefner hosted Roman Polanski, it was a soirée. If Combs had done the same, it’d be a federal sting.

The law knows how to squint. When it looked at Hefner, it saw Hugh. When it looks at Combs, it sees Sean. One was America’s old white uncle in a smoking jacket. The other, a Black mogul who threw yacht parties with hip-hop beats and model-heavy entourages. Same script. Different trailer.

This isn’t sympathy. It’s symmetry—-just examined under different lights.

Look back. Bill Cosby was torn down as he should’ve been. But when Spector shot a woman in his house, they gave him bail. Robert Blake walked. O.J. didn’t. R. Kelly got decades. Woody Allen got distribution deals. The ledger’s always crooked, depending on who’s writing it.

If a white man throws a masquerade with models and moguls, it’s art. If a Black man does it, it’s probable cause.

The robe was velvet. The handcuffs, never fitted. The system knew who wore what.

And still-—this is not a defense of crime. This is not about innocence. It’s about the absurdity of how justice shows up late, or never, depending on skin tone and the soundtrack behind the gates.

The sun sets over the mansion. The lights flicker on. Somewhere else, the beat drops and the law tightens its tie. The dream goes on, but the mirror’s cracked.

 

Grady VanWright is a poet, author, and playwright whose work blends introspection, independence, and the surreal edges of the human condition. Based in Houston, Texas, he has been writing and reading poetry for over 25 years, drawing inspiration from a lifetime of experiences and historical fascinations. His work has been published in Washington Square Review (2025), The McNeese Review, and numerous online literary journals. With a distinctive voice that merges stream-of-consciousness with moderate surrealism, Grady continues to craft evocative narratives that challenge perception and invite contemplation.

DL Polonsky is a Boston area artist, writer, and filmmaker. His caricatures have appeared in The Boston Herald and His written work includes the children’s book The Letter Bandits from T.B.W. Books.