I next found out I was going to be sent to see what kind of dirt I could get on a South Florida Republican called “Mike Farley.” Our intel had it that he was gay, and the notion was certainly something we could exploit for political gain.
I asked why one of our gay operatives couldn’t handle it, but was made to understand that the “Lavender Hill Mob,” as we called them, was already quite busy on Capitol Hill in DC.
Sitting alone in a Palm Beach hotel, I scoured the local gay publications I had spread out on the bed before me. There were a lot of these free papers and magazines around, and they were a good source for finding out where the “action” in the gay scene was.
After picking out a few clubs, I donned the blue jean shorts I had cut from one of my own pair, some construction boots I had picked up at the Salvation Army, and a “wife beater” t-shirt from JC Penney, and headed out into the muggy Palm Beach night.
I got a lot of looks at the places I went, but luckily, no aggressive come-ons. That first night ended without me finding Farley. But the next day was Saturday, and the clubs would be hopping once again that evening.
Saturday night, as I sat sipping a Guinness at “Baxters,” and Pet Shop Boys music fueled the bumping and grinding out on the dance floor, I felt a pair of eyes on me. I looked around, and quickly spotted a gray-haired man on the opposite side of the bar eyeing me.
Holy shit, it was Farley. I had to think quickly. I made definitive eye contact with him, and motioned toward the men’s room with a nod of my head.
Getting up from my seat at the bar, I headed into the men’s room and began to wash my hands at the sink. Less than a minute later Farley entered. He came right to the sink and said hello. I dried my hands and said hello back.
He told me his name was “Mike,” but I could call him “MF,” which he boasted stood for “Man-Fucker.” I made up some bogus name for myself.
Farley wasted no time. He asked if he could “get me off in one of these stalls.” I wasn’t ready for this. I said that’d be nice, but that I’d rather go somewhere we could be alone. His eyes were on fire. He took my arm.
I tossed a $10 bill on the bar on the way out, and then headed off with my “conquest.”
Farley took me to his home, a really nice Key West-style place in an upscale neighborhood. Beautifully appointed. Say what you want about Fo… er… Farley, but the man knows how to decorate.
Too bad he doesn’t know how to hide incriminating items. Farley was out fast after I slipped a powerful sedative into his merlot. I got everything – pictures of him in compromising positions with what looked to be teen boys, pictures of gay GOP parties (you’d be surprised who was in these photos), Farley arm in arm with friends at gay bars. Yeah, a treasure trove of evidence.
One interesting photo showed Farley with a Florida Republican gubernatorial candidate and the head of a large national evangelical organization enjoying each other's "company" at Fantasy Fest in Key West.
The recent leak of explicit emails between Farley and some of his pages (the work of a fellow Democratic operative) was simply the first punch. The coup de gras will come Monday before the election, when these photos are released.
I knocked over a few items in the house – a lamp, a bookshelf, etc. – to make Farley think the incident was a theft. I knew he’d be too embarrassed to make a police report, so I wouldn’t have to worry. It would be a while before he realized such compromising materials were missing – and that the incident was politically motivated.Well, that's it. I’m done. I’m out of the Democratic operative game, and I’m happy. I await whatever legal consequences these confessions bring upon me. I had a job to do, and I did it well. Vive la Democratic Party!