Arnold Schwarzenegger aka Arnold Schwarzen-ass!

I’ll Be Back

Eleven years ago Arnold Schwarzenegger told my husband he would be a “SCHMUCK” if he didn’t get me to sign a pre-nup before we got married.

Oops, just a minute. Have to pick up that name I just dropped.

But it’s true. While I was in Cape Town, South Africa working as the fifth re-writer (and person whose butt you could use to wipe the mud off your shoes) on an execrable movie called Diamond Hunters starring Roy Scheider (doing an inexplicable Yiddish accent), my husband was on Arnold’s private jet scouting locations for one of Arnold’s action movies in dangerous Mexican hot spots.

My husband’s a screenwriter. This sounds very sexy. And when you’re on a plane with Arnold flying to a huge Drug Don’s hacienda, it is indeed sexy.

But most of the time it’s sitting on your butt looking at an empty computer screen alone shoving fistfuls of Cheetos/pork rinds/chocolate Kisses down your face while you wait for the phone to ring regarding your writing and when the phone does ring 89.9 % of the time it’s not good news.

But let’s get back to Schwarzen-wanker.

I knew — perhaps before yet-another-smart-woman-married-to-a-skirt-chaser Maria — that Ahh-nold was the Schmuck.

As can only happen in L.A. I’d gone to a baby shower for a friend of mine and encountered a buff female version of Arnold with an Ukranian accent.

She turned out to be Arnold’s private masseuse.

She was as tight-lipped as she was brawny. I heard several party guests trying to milk her for info about Arnold’s life … Is it true Maria’s a bitch? Do you inject steroids into Arnold’s butt? Have the steroids stunted his penis and has human growth hormone grown it back?

Arnold’s masseuse would just shrug and enigmatically sip her Stolichnaya straight up in a shot glass. I hung back in the shadows, biding my time, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Three hours later that time came. I found myself alone in the living room with Arnold’s masseuse. At this point we were eating peyote (oh alright, pink cake – but I think it was herbed) and were perhaps a bit glassy-eyed from libations when I fixed her with my x-ray eyes, looking past her remarkably thick cranium into the dark recesses of her soul.

She took note of my intensity and girded her considerable loins for the worst.

“Does Arnold…” I began incisively, “… philanthropy, philharmonic, philodendron, I mean, philander?”

For a moment I doubted my super spy skills. Wasn’t sure I’d cracked her. But then an expression came upon her face of great mirth.

A look that said, “I’m not telling any of the rest of these floozies, but I’ll tell you – OF COURSE HE DOES!” She didn’t actually say that, but she did give me that look. And then said…”Heh, heh, heh!”

My husband maintains that while on the scout with Arnold in Mexico, Arnold was a “perfect gentleman” and “hilariously funny.”

All I can say is that better not mean there’s a love child hiding somewhere in our pantry, because I never signed a pre-nup like Maria. And hell hath no fury … like a woman formerly known as beautiful.

QUESTION: Are there any rich, powerful men who can keep it in their shorts?