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The next thing I knew, a shot glass of Southern Comfort bobbing in a art institute of chicago glass of beer was pushed in front of me. I remember downing that drink and two more. After that, the lights went out. I don't remember the next few hours. I don't remember how long we stayed at the bar. I don't art institute of chicago remember how we got back to 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 art institute of chicago 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 out and stuck his hand into my underwear and began rubbing my penis.
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