A few months ago, the birthday of a dear cousin. The sister of the Kumma, a little subdued, but not to the state of "soopley," and so, a couple of small bubbles from the nose, asked me, blue, like a drow, to take her home. I moved with difficulty, but I drive a bucha motorcycle much better than a sober (this is a very strong spell, don't try to repeat it). Luckily, the benefit of only 10 kilometers on the deserted track. Along the way, she began to admire the speed and unobtrusively catch me for the sexual fucking. Then he invited me to come and drink wine. In the process, she poured the same wine into the jeans, removed them and remained in strings. Then she used to kiss and cheer something about long-hidden feelings. I, having a high moral appearance, in a rough form refused to her and left home. How good I am. He did everything right. Why am I ashamed of remembering this case and still feeling shit?