I read Lizzie McGuire Fan Fiction for a long time before I started writing it. At some point, I read a story called Kinky Love, about wild gay sex between Ethan and Gordo. You can go back and find it and read it if you want, but really…THIS STORY IS NOTHING LIKE THAT ONE! It was an inspiration, only because I wanted to see if I could do better. I wanted to see if there was a more mature, subdued way to deal with the reality of a teenage boy discovering his sexuality and asking the inevitable questions that will help mold him into the man he will eventually become.

So yes, this story will have some gay sex in it, but that is not the focal point. The focal point is David Gordon, the summer before he enters high school, on a journey of self-doubt and self-discovery. In some strange way, this may actually end up as a very sweet LG.

By the way, I’m female, and I’m not gay, so maybe I’m way out of my league on this one. But I consider this a challenge, so I can’t resist tackling the topic. Let me know how you think I’m doing. Signed and anonymous reviews gladly accepted. Be truthful, but be nice! I value all constructive feedback!

Please keep an open mind and enjoy the story!

(PS- I was going to wait a little to begin posting this story, but I’m so tired of seeing Spoiled Too on the top of the M list, I thought I’d shake it up a bit by posting a new story. It would also be nice if somebody else would post something new to the M section. Anybody got any ideas?? Love to see them!)

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CHAPTER 1

“Oh, by the way, David, this coming Monday you’ll be going to baseball camp,” Howard Gordon announced as he flipped back the page of his newspaper, then immediately returned to his reading.

Gordo stared incredulously at his father. “What?” he finally managed to spit out, his mouth hanging open.

Mr. Gordon looked up over the top of his reading glasses and explained, “It’s an excellent camp, in Sunnybrooke, about fifty miles from here. I’m sure you’ve heard of it, everybody wants to get their kids into it. The program runs for three weeks, and by the time you’re done, you’ll be hitting and pitching with the best of them.”

Gordo’s mouth continued to hang open, until he was able to form the words, “But…but…Dad! I don’t even like baseball.”

Mr. Gordon scowled at his son. “Of course you do!”

“No I don’t!” Gordo insisted, his head growing hot under his mop of shaggy brown curls. “In fact, I HATE baseball!”

This looked to be shaping up like a major argument with his father.

Again.

“You do not hate baseball.” Mr. Gordon insisted. “You love baseball. Don’t you remember Tee Ball?”

“Dad! I was five! Maybe six. That was….like, eight years ago. Everything is….so much different now.”

“What’s different?” Mr. Gordon insisted. “Boys and baseball. It’s an American institution. It will do you good to get some sports into you. We all know you’re smart, David. How could any child of mine be otherwise? But really now…time to be a little more…shall we say… well rounded?”

Having said this, Mr. Gordon returned to his newspaper, as if the subject was closed. But to Gordo, the subject was not closed. He really did not like baseball, he pretty much despised it. In fact, he despised all sports. Not that he had anything against sports, but sports seemed to have something against him. He was short, and small, and…and well, okay, he was kind of a wimp. He ran like a girl. He threw like a girl. Hell, his two best friends were girls! He didn’t know anything about being a sporty type of guy. And he certainly didn’t want to undertake anything at which he was so certain he was bound to fail.

But one thing he always failed at was arguing with his father. When Howard Gordon made up his mind, the matter was laid to rest. Still, Gordo was not going to take this one lying down. He pulled himself up in his chair, took a deep breath, and announced, “I don’t want to go, Dad. I’m not going to go.”

This time, Mr. Gordon’s scowl was even more intense than before. “Whyever not?” he asked impatiently.

“I…well ….you see… the thing is…. You know, I told Lizzie—“

“Your little friend has been grounded for the rest of the summer, after her escapades in Italy, and Miranda is not due back from Mexico for another two weeks. There is nothing for you here except moping around the house watching cartoons and old movies. David. Please. Let’s be reasonable. Fresh air and sunshine—”

“Sweating my ass off while I get burned to a crisp!” Gordo countered.

“David!” Mr. Gordon snapped.

As luck would have it, this was the exact moment Roberta Gordon walked into the room. She had been out all day seeing patients in her thriving Psychiatric practice. Now, as she came home, kicking off her shoes and moaning, full of the troubles of a dozen dysfunctional souls, the last thing she needed was to hear her husband and her son arguing.

“Howard!” she ranted. “Why are you yelling at the boy like that?”

“Your son has a gutter mouth,” Mr. Gordon explained. “Can you believe he’s using foul language to his father? Where the hell did he learn something like that?”

“Mom!” Gordo jumped in. “Dad’s forcing me to go to a baseball camp.”

“Don’t you want to go, dear? It will be so much fun!” Mrs. Gordon said brightly, with a big fake smile for her only son.

“No, it won’t!” Gordo insisted. “It will be a royal pain in the ass—”

“There he goes again!” Mr. Gordon bellowed, finally putting down his newspaper.

“Howard! Really! Let the boy express himself!”

“Express himself, Roberta? That doesn’t give him the right to be rude to—”

“Listen,” Gordo interrupted strongly, standing up in the middle of the room and waving his arms at both parents. “Before you two get going at it again, let me just say one thing. I do not want to go to this baseball camp. Doesn’t what I want have any influence whatsoever?”

“Of course it does!” Mrs. Gordon said sweetly, at the same moment that her husband said, “No, none whatsoever!”

“Howard!”

“Roberta!”

Gordo sighed. They were at it again. It had been like this a lot lately, ever since the inquiry involving Dad's patient, Tami Taylor.

“I told you he wasn’t going to like the idea—” Mrs. Gordon began.

“What the hell difference does that make?” Mr. Gordon shouted. “He’s a child, Roberta. He doesn’t get to make his own decisions. Not quite yet. It’s our responsibility to mold him, to use every opportunity we can to turn him into a man, into a real man. You know, I had to pull quite a few strings to get him into this program at such a late date—”

“Strings!” Mrs. Gordon returned with equal vehemence. “One of your patients--one of the few patients you still have, that stuck with you, God knows why!--happens to have a brother who is some big-deal baseball coach at the state university. What did you have to do? Offer free sessions in exchange for getting your boy into a program that will finally make a ‘man’ out of him?”

“Are you attacking my competence as a—”

“Mom! Dad!” Gordo interrupted. “Let’s stay on topic, shall we? This is about me, remember?”

“Yes, of course we remember, sweetheart, “ Mrs. Gordon said, dropping her voice. “We are always thinking of you, David. We only want the very best for you. And if you don’t think that—”

“Roberta, this issue is not open for debate!” Mr. Gordon exclaimed. “David will be attending the camp. I’m driving him up there on Monday. He’s going up a boy, he’s coming back a man.”

Mrs. Gordon scoffed, “Will you listen to yourself, Howard? When did you become such a Neanderthal? What makes you think baseball is going to make a ‘man’ out of our little boy?”

Gordo cringed. His mother did enjoy calling him a little boy, almost as much as his father insisted on pushing him to become a man.

“Well, it certainly did me a world of good when I was his age—”

“You were never his age, Howard!” Mrs. Gordon insisted. “David is a totally different child than you ever were.”

“I’ll say he is!” Mr. Gordon agreed. “When I was his age, I was playing sports, hanging out with other guys, and if I ever spent as much time with a girl as he spends with that Lizzie McGuire, it was only because I was too busy getting to first base, or maybe even second base—”

“Oh, fabulous!” Mrs. Gordon sneered. “A baseball analogy. How witty, how rich, considering the circumstances.”

Gordo threw up his hands. Okay! He’d heard enough.

“I’m only saying it wouldn’t hurt him to—”

”Hello! Dad!” Gordo exclaimed. “I’m right here!”

“I know you are, son. And you need to hear this.”

“No, I don’t,” Gordo said firmly. “I really don’t need to hear again how by my age you were boinking everything in a mini skirt and go-go boots—”

Mrs. Gordon gasped. “Howard! You told him about that? About your sordid—”

“Not sordid,” Mr. Gordon insisted. “Healthy. Which is a lot more than I can say for his relationship with those two—”

“Never criticize your child’s friends!” Mrs. Gordon recited. “In all your years as a psychiatrist, Howard, have you learned nothing about child-rearing?”

“That’s it!” Gordo announced, storming out of the room. Whenever he heard the word “child-rearing” he knew it was time to escape.

“David!” Mrs. Gordon called after him desperately, even as her husband demanded, “Young man, just where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Out!” Gordo called back. “Let me know when you’ve reached a consensus on how to rear me.” Geez! For two well- educated professionals, his parents sure knew how to butt heads. Especially when it came to “child rearing.”

Gordo knew if he stayed to hear the end of this argument, he would surely end up even more messed up than he already was. And so he let the screen door slam behind him and headed down the block in the sweltering summer heat, his long curls bouncing on his head as he followed his feet to the only place he could always depend on them to lead him.

Lizzie McGuire’s house.