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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