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I don't remember how we got masturbation back to masturbation Ruffalo's house. I don't remember getting undressed. I don't remember going to bed. But at some point during the night, I woke up from my drunken fog. And I remember exactly what happened. Ruffalo was sitting on the bed next to me. He was stripped down to a T-shirt and a pair of jockey shorts. He was gazing at me and caressing my face. I remember the overpowering smell of his stale cologne. "I love you, My Tim," he said. Then he reached masturbation out and stuck his hand into my underwear and began rubbing my penis. I remember feeling utter despair. I was 17 years old, 2,000 miles from home, and a fat, smelly priest had his hand down my pants. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to cry. I wanted to haul off and punch the life out of the pervert's face. But I did nothing. I didn't want to cause a commotion and wake up the other guys. I was too embarrassed to risk them finding out what he was doing to me.
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