![]() ![]() Lowe spent his early years far from Malibu, in Dayton, Ohio. But otherwise most of the stories he only tells his friends in this appealing and attitude-free autobiography are shot through with pain, anxiety and unhappiness. He does recall losing his virginity at 14 as a girlfriend’s birthday present to him and acknowledges that by a certain point in his life, he seldom went without sex for more than 30 hours. He only briefly discusses the incident (a “mess,” a “doozy” of a problem), assuming (no doubt correctly) that nearly everyone knows the details. I soon realized I was wrong, wrong, wrong. What else could someone so good-looking and successful write about? ![]() So I thought, right, stories of sun, surf and sex in Malibu. I looked down at his book’s title, “Stories I Only Tell My Friends,” and recalled the scandal that occurred after a videotape of Lowe having sex with two girls (one of them underage) surfaced. ![]() ![]() His hair is thick and dark, his nose perfectly straight, his jaw chiseled and covered with stubble that’s mostly pepper, but with a perfectly judged dash of salt. On the cover of his memoir, Rob Lowe, pictured in a black-and-white head shot worthy of Vogue, shields his eyes with his hands, as though he’s staring into a golden Pacific sunset. ![]()
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