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For decades, Placido Domingo, one of the most celebrated and powerful men in opera, has tried to pressure women into sexual relationships by dangling jobs and then sometimes punishing the women professionally when they refused his advances, numerous accusers told The Associated Press.

Regarded as one of the greatest opera singers of all time, Domingo also is a prolific conductor and the director of the Los Angeles Opera. The multiple Grammy winner is an immensely respected figure in his rarefied world, described by colleagues as a man of prodigious charm and energy who works tirelessly to promote his art form.

At 78, Domingo still attracts sellout crowds around the globe and continues adding to the 150 roles he has sung in 4,000-plus performances, more than any opera singer in history.

But his accusers and others in the industry say there is a troubling side to Domingo — one they say has long been an open secret in the opera world.

Eight singers and a dancer have told the AP that they were sexually harassed by the long-married, Spanish-born superstar in encounters that took place over three decades beginning in the late 1980s, at venues that included opera companies where he held top managerial positions.

One accuser said Domingo stuck his hand down her skirt and three others said he forced wet kisses on their lips — in a dressing room, a hotel room and at a lunch meeting.

"A business lunch is not strange," said one of the singers. "Somebody trying to hold your hand during a business lunch is strange — or putting their hand on your knee is a little strange. He was always touching you in some way, and always kissing you."

In addition to the nine accusers, a half-dozen other women told the AP that suggestive overtures by Domingo made them uncomfortable, including one singer who said he repeatedly asked her out on dates after hiring her to sing a series of concerts with him in the 1990s.

The AP also spoke to almost three dozen other singers, dancers, orchestra musicians, members of backstage staff, voice teachers and an administrator who said they witnessed inappropriate sexually tinged behavior by Domingo and that he pursued younger women with impunity.

Domingo did not respond to detailed questions from the AP about specific incidents, but issued a statement saying: "The allegations from these unnamed individuals dating back as many as thirty years are deeply troubling, and as presented, inaccurate.

"Still, it is painful to hear that I may have upset anyone or made them feel uncomfortable — no matter how long ago and despite my best intentions. I believed that all of my interactions and relationships were always welcomed and consensual. People who know me or who have worked with me know that I am not someone who would intentionally harm, offend, or embarrass anyone.

"However, I recognize that the rules and standards by which we are — and should be — measured against today are very different than they were in the past. I am blessed and privileged to have had a more than 50-year career in opera and will hold myself to the highest standards."

Seven of the nine accusers told the AP they feel their careers were adversely impacted after rejecting Domingo's advances, with some saying that roles he promised never materialized and several noting that while they went on to work with other companies, they were never hired to work with him again.

Only one of the nine women would allow her name to be used — Patricia Wulf, a mezzo-soprano who sang with Domingo at the Washington Opera. The others requested anonymity, saying they either still work in the business and feared reprisals or worried they might be publicly humiliated and even harassed.

The accusers' stories lay out strikingly similar patterns of behavior that included Domingo persistently contacting them — often calling them repeatedly at home late at night — expressing interest in their careers and urging them to meet him privately for a drink or a meal, or at his apartment or hotel room, under the guise of offering professional advice.

None of the women could offer documentation, such as phone messages, but the AP spoke to many colleagues and friends who they confided in. In addition, the AP independently verified that the women worked where they said they did and that Domingo overlapped with them at those locations.

The AP has withheld certain details in cases where it could lead to identification of the accuser.

Two of the women said they briefly gave in to Domingo's advances, feeling they couldn't risk jeopardizing their careers by saying no to the most powerful man in their profession.

One of them said she had sex with him twice, including at the Biltmore hotel in Los Angeles. When Domingo left for a performance, the woman said, he put $10 on the dresser, saying, "I don't want you to feel like a prostitute, but I also don't want you to have to pay to park."

Many of the accusers said they were warned repeatedly by colleagues to never be alone with Domingo, even in an elevator. If they did join him for a meal, they said they were told to avoid alcohol and meet at a public place — for lunch, not dinner.

The women making the accusations were mostly young and starting their careers at the time.

Several said they took extreme measures to avoid Domingo, including no longer using the ladies' room near his office, asking other singers or backstage staff to stick with them while at work, and not answering their phones at home.

The dancer called her avoidance technique "the bob and weave, the giggle and get out," and one soprano labeled it "walking the tightrope."

Domingo's influence in the opera world is so great that Wulf was the only person among the dozens who talked to the AP who spoke on the record. And many of those who spoke did so reluctantly, fearing retribution but also not wanting to inflict collateral damage on the industry itself.

But ultimately, those who talked to the AP said they felt emboldened by the #MeToo movement and decided the most effective way to attack the entrenched sexual misconduct in their industry was to call out the behavior of opera's most prominent figure.

"There is an oral tradition of warning women against Placido Domingo," said a mezzo-soprano who worked at the LA Opera but is not among the accusers. She echoed advice that several women said they had received: "Avoid interaction with him at all costs. And definitely don't be alone with him."

Another mezzo-soprano who is one of the accusers was 23 and singing in the LA Opera chorus when she first met Domingo in 1988.

During a rehearsal of "Tales of Hoffman," she was selected to kiss Domingo in an orgy scene. She said she remembers wiping his saliva off her face from a sloppy, wet kiss after which he whispered in her ear, "I wish we weren't on stage."

After that incident, she said, Domingo started calling her at home frequently, although she had not given him her number. He told her she was a talented singer with a promising future and he wanted to help her.

"I hadn't started my career yet. I was completely flattered. And floored. And excited," she said. "Then it got creepier."

"He would say things like, 'Come to my apartment. Let's sing through some arias. I'll give you coaching. I'd like to hear what you can do for casting.'"

Over the course of the next three years, she said, he was uncomfortably affectionate, slipping a hand around her waist when they crossed backstage or giving her a kiss on the cheek a bit too close to the mouth. He knew the key codes for the dressing rooms and would enter uninvited, she said, which she said she assumed was to catch her undressed.

Domingo was an artistic consultant at LA Opera in the 1980s when his stardom went mainstream. Newsweek magazine dubbed him "The King of The Opera" in a 1982 cover story and he appeared on popular television shows like "Sesame Street," where a character, Placido Flamingo, was named for him. His collaboration in the "Three Tenors," with the late Luciano Pavarotti and Jose Carreras, produced the best-selling classical recording of all time.

Rather than offend Domingo and risk losing future assignments, the mezzo-soprano said she strenuously tried to avoid being alone with him, while also striving not to insult him. But he did not take the hint, she said, and resumed his unwelcome pursuit whenever he returned to Los Angeles.

One night, she said, she agreed to meet Domingo about 11 p.m. "and then I had a full-blown panic attack. I freaked out, and I just kept not answering the phone. He just filled up the machine, calling me until 3:30 in the morning."

She said she didn't report his behavior because "that just wasn't done" and also feared any misstep could kill her career.

Singers and administrators would "smile and shrug," she said. "Everybody would see me running around to avoid him and laugh it off. That's how everybody dealt with Placido."

One backstage staff member said many felt Domingo was pursuing the mezzo-soprano "in some way that she was not wanting. We were all aware of that." And a male singer and friend told the AP that he remembered the singer seeking his advice about how to navigate the situation.

The mezzo-soprano said she would mentally prepare herself for the star's returns to Los Angeles. "I used to steel myself when he was in town, thinking, 'Am I going to be the target or not? What will I say to him when he asks me again? How am I going to get out of it?'"

In 1991, she said, "I finally gave in and slept with him. I ran out of excuses. It was like, 'OK, I guess this is what I have to do.'"

She said she had sex with Domingo on two occasions, at the Biltmore and at his Los Angeles apartment.

She said the superstar mentioned his "superstition that he had to be with a woman before a show" to help him relax and calm his nerves.

"I will sing better — and it will all be because of you," she said he told her before he deposited $10 on the hotel dresser for the parking fee.

She cut off physical contact after the second encounter, a move she is convinced derailed her career at LA Opera.

"I don't have a smoking gun," she said, but "for somebody who was calling me and trying to see me every year, every time he was in town, to just never contact me again and never hire me again is pretty convenient."

The LA Opera announced in 1998 that Domingo would become its artistic director, after working for years as a consultant for the company.

A young singer who met Domingo at a rehearsal that year said he immediately began calling her at home.

"He would say, 'I'm going to talk to you as the future artistic director of the company'" and discuss possible roles for her, she said. "Then he would lower his voice and say, 'Now I'm going to talk to you as Placido,'" she said, and ask her to meet him — for a drink in Santa Monica, to see a movie, to come to his apartment so he could cook her breakfast.

During one of his frequent uninvited visits to her dressing room, he admired her costume, leaning forward to kiss her cheeks and placing one hand on the side of her breast, she said.

From the beginning, the singer — who was 27 and just starting her career — said she felt panicked and trapped.

"I was totally intimidated and felt like saying no to him would be saying no to God. How do you say no to God?" she said.

As the calls wore on, she stopped picking up the phone. In person, she gave excuses, she said: She was busy, she was tired, she had an audition, she was married. She quoted Domingo as replying on one occasion: "It's a shame your husband doesn't understand about your career."

After one performance, the singer said she went home and answered the phone, her heart sinking when she heard Domingo's voice.

He told her he had champagne and asked if he could come pick her up so they could celebrate the performance. In that moment, she said, she had "a feeling of impending doom" that "I wasn't going to have an opera career if I didn't give in." So, she said, she reluctantly agreed.

"He picked me up in his BMW and I got in the car with him. He was very excited. He was touching my knee. I went in my mind into acting so I could live with myself," she said. She said they drove to his apartment near the opera's Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, where champagne was waiting.

"We were sitting on the couch and at some point, he started kissing me," she said. She said he then led her to a bedroom where he took her clothes off, then undressed himself. They engaged in "heavy petting" and "groping," she said.

Domingo continued to pursue her in the days and weeks after, she said, calling her repeatedly. "I felt like prey. I felt like I was being hunted by him," she said.

Ultimately, she told him the calls needed to stop and reminded him that she was married.

"I was not prepared for how much it would mess with my confidence, and my feeling shame about it and wondering who knew and if they thought that's why I got an opportunity or a role," she said. "I started to doubt my own talent and skills."

The singer's husband confirmed to the AP that she had told him at the time Domingo was persistently calling and that "eventually it was quite clear he was propositioning her." When she confessed to what had happened with Domingo, the husband said her description of the star's behavior persuaded him "that the only way to get out of it was to either give in — or give him a hard no and give up all concerns of your career."

A friend and colleague of the singer told the AP that she remembered the singer saying Domingo was inundating her with calls and ignoring requests to stop. The singer's weight dropped dramatically and she developed problems with her nerves, the colleague said.

"It was like watching someone be psychologically killed," the colleague said. "She got smaller and smaller as a person."

The singer said that once Domingo took over control of casting decisions at the LA Opera, he never hired her again.

Now 49 and retired, she said she is haunted by fears that submitting to Domingo had mitigated any wrongdoing on his part.

"I still struggle with the sense that I let myself down, pushing through and doing my job when I should have raised holy hell," she said.

Patricia Wulf, another mezzo-soprano who worked with Domingo, said he would confront her night after night with the same whispered question.

"Every time I would walk off stage, he would be in the wings waiting for me," she said. "He would come right up to me, as close as could be, put his face right in my face, lower his voice and say, 'Patricia, do you have to go home tonight?'"

At first, she said, she nervously laughed off Domingo's remarks, even though she considered them offensive. But when he persisted, she made her position clear.

"I would say, 'Yes! I have to go home tonight.' And I would walk away."

It was 1998 and Wulf's career was taking off at the Washington Opera, where Domingo served as artistic director from 1996-2003 and general director from 2003-2011.

Then 40, she had been hired to do two solo roles that year, first in a production of "The Magic Flute" and later in "Fedora," which starred Domingo and the great Italian soprano Mirella Freni. The opportunity to work with such famous singers was a career high point, she said, but the experience quickly became a nightmare.

In an interview at her home in Virginia, Wulf, now 61, held back tears as she related how, after investing years training her voice, she finally arrived on the big stage, only to find herself facing a predicament she didn't know how to handle.

"You have to understand that when a man that powerful — he is almost like God in my business — when he would come up that close and say that, the first thing that goes through your mind is 'What?!'

"But," she added, "you also think as soon as you walk away and get away, you think, 'Did I just ruin my career?' And that went on through that entire production."

Wulf said Domingo's pursuit seemingly had no bounds.

"It got to a point that I would come off stage and try to slither behind a pillar, and he would still find a way to get to me," she said.

She said Domingo would often knock on her dressing room door uninvited and that she feared leaving the room if he was in the hallway.

"I'd open the door and peek and see if he was there. And if he was there, I would just wait," she said.

She said when she brought her husband, Richard Lew, to the "Magic Flute" opening night party, Domingo "came right up to me, took my hand, shook my hand, kissed both cheeks and he whispered in my ear, 'I would like to meet my rival.'"

Lew told the AP that he would ask his wife after each performance, "Did it happen again? Did he say the same thing?" He added that "at a certain point, we didn't have to ask. You could just tell by how upset she was."

Wulf recalled the compassion of a male colleague who offered to stand up for her if she wanted to report him. "They're not going to fire him — they'll fire me," she remembered telling him.

Contacted by the AP, the former colleague recalled Wulf's discomfort and said he would accompany her to her car at work because she feared going alone.

Wulf said that Domingo did not physically touch her but that there was no mistaking his intentions.

"Absolutely and most certainly, that was sexual harassment," she said. "When a man steps that close to you and with a wry smile asks if I have to go home — repeatedly — I can come up with no other conclusion than him wanting to bed me. Especially given his reputation for that."

"It affected the way I dealt with men for the rest of my operatic career and the rest of my life," she added.

Wulf said she is speaking out because the silence about what she called the "well-known secret" of Domingo's behavior has stretched on too long. "I'm stepping forward because I hope that it can help other women come forward, or be strong enough to say no," she said.

Another singer who worked in Los Angeles in the mid-2000s told the AP that she already knew of Domingo's reputation when he took an extreme interest in her career. She made sure she always had an excuse for leaving right after work.

"In the beginning, I wasn't scared. I thought I could handle it," she said, noting that he was persistent but not physically aggressive.

But one night after rehearsal, he caught her off-guard, she said, asking her for a ride home.

"The whole premise was ridiculous: Why would Placido Domingo not have a ride home?" she said. "But what was I going to do?"

Halfway through the short drive, she said, he put his hand on her leg and, as she reached his building, directed her toward a side entrance and told her to pull over.

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For decades, Placido Domingo, one of the most celebrated and powerful men in opera, has tried to pressure women into sexual relationships by dangling jobs and then sometimes punishing the women professionally when they refused his advances, numerous accusers told The Associated Press.


Placido Domingo directs the Washington Opera Orchestra during a rehearsal.

Women: Opera's Domingo abused power to sexually harass them

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