Barney Stinson has a pretty awesome porn collection, even if he says so himself. He has porn in fifty-two languages, from every dialect and region that produces it. He has soft-core porn, he has hard-core porn. He has lesbian porn, he has three-way, four-way and even five-way porn. He has home-made porn, he has porn that's so professional that it makes the current crop of HD TV movies look lame. He was porn of every fetish from dress-up to Chinese coprophagia. Nothing phases him. No act is too perverted, no kink is too dirty for him. There's absolutely nothing in his collection that embarrasses him.
Except one thing.
This disk is for exceptional circumstances. This disk is the one that he slips into his blu-ray player when the world is at its blackest. This disk, this is the one that he's almost, so many times, taken a cigarette lighter too because he knows that it's bad for him. It's bad for everyone.
This disk, is the one he needs to be watching right now, even as he almost schizophrenically knows he shouldn't.
He doesn't strip down, not for this. He just lowers his zipper, wriggles a few inches out of his pants and pulls his dick free from his boxers. The silk feels smooth and warm against the back of his hand as he absently fondles his own balls, settling back on the bed and getting comfortable.
The images on the screen seem to be reflected in his mind's eye, playing at the back of his brain in the 3D-IMAX of memory. It's weird, because the point of view on screen doesn't match what he remembers. Of course it doesn't, the video was captured by the hidden camera in his headboard.
This was before Robin found out about the camera.
The hidden camera in his headboard is cleverly placed so that it's almost as if the woman on the screen is making love to it. If he half-closes his eyes, it's almost as though she's there with him right now. He double-fists his dick, covering as much of is as possible so that it feels almost real, like he's penetrating her again, like he's making her cry out right now, not his doppelganger on the screen.
He feels something stir inside, some faint connection.
And that is why this particular disk in his porn collection is so shameful. This is the danger of it. Even a few minutes of video footage is enough to spark the longing inside him. Even a glimpse of Robin's face, contorted in ecstasy, is enough to reignite those damn feelings again.
Feelings…
His groans, long, low, turn to rapid grunts as he speeds the movement of his hands, matching screen-Robin's gyrating tempo, and oh God he remembers this. He remembers what it felt like to be inside her, in secret, for her to look down at him with such intensity that her beauty almost shattered his heart.
She was the only one. She was the only one that he held on to with both hands while yelling at the universe to do its worst. She was the only one he ever grew a soul for.
And now she's gone.
He ejaculates with a desperate cry, not inside Robin, but into the empty air. And, like every time he's ever watched this video, there's wetness on his cheeks when he comes.
He sniffs, swallows, wipes his fist with a Kleenex, and then ejects the disk. Like every time he's watch this video, he just feels hollow and empty; lonely, even.
He lifts the DVD from its tray and he can barely see it through stinging, streaming eyes. It's an affront to all his other porn.
He snaps it in half with a sharp crack. All in all, it's for the best.