Work ties and a Sledgehammer to my nuts

I have started a new job lately, this coincides with the pause from my blog entries. In fact I haven't been doing enough entering of any form since starting work. I am now ruled by a tryant of small stature and inversely proportional ego who takes a metaphorical sledgehammer to my nuts on a daily basis. Salary seems to be little else other than compensation for the inevitable breakdown that boss no doubt hopes to induce.

Being a gender-bending tie-wearing employee has its downsides. Work-ties can be restrictive at the best of times, yet specifically its the worst of these times that I allude to. Apropos work ties, the key rule of any form of bondage should surely be: release them at the end. To this effect, please can someone explain the oxy-moronic paradoxes known as:
- "optional" overtime (this seldom is).
- "social" drinks evenings (the prefix anti- is often omitted)

I am still recovering from a recent "optional" work-night on the town, claims of other commitments are akin to casting aspersions on my commitment and sociability. There was much talking "shop" and trivial small talk: I am still undecided as to what was worse. I counter-intuitively used anaesthestic to numb the pain (specifically alcohol- which I saw as the equivalent of my hourly wage for my enforced socialisation and presence): yours truly ended up "nissed as a pewt" and asked lover for "a glass of toilet" when I came home, who was so repulsed she considered obliging.

There is only thing worse than a dick-tatorial boss, and that's two of them: I am bi-ruled and have 2 bosses (this is the only way I could be bi). One of whom rules by the stick (and I never have been a conventional accepter of the dominion of the stick) and the other by the carrot. The principle being I'm shafted by one or the other in some way or another.

One of my past entries referred to a boss who was in such deep denial about my Sapphic status that she thought that a stew I once referred to be waiting for me at home was in fact the name of my boyfriend. The inner conflict about sexuality of my current she-boss-from-hell is far less subconscious. She simply demanded outright who was the man in the relationship. Not quite getting the fundamental aspect of lesbianism there I feel: There is no man.. There are women.
Yes, there are two women, indeed could be more depending on the breadth of one's mind, moral standards and of course bed. What they do, what they wear or not to do it, how they do it and when they do it and so forth now that is up to them. But, nope, no man.

And that seems to be the crux of the crotch of the issue. I have stumbled inadvertently upon a certain breed/er of patriarch: one for whom a man is essentially present in some way or another. More specifically, one with a former gay male colleague (her quote being he was "nice enough, considering..."). Fill in the ellipses as one will, a few suggestions though would be:
a) latent homophobia
b) conservatism
c) a rabid obsession with thinking of other as a function of their sexual proclivity and the inability to see this as degrading, reductionist behaviour.

Her problem is clear to see, it is quite simply that there is no man in the relationship. Hence she has set about making it into her mission to, as Julie Andrews would say: climb every mountain (origin: molehill), cross every dyke (aka yours truly)... and in short take her sledgehammer to my nuts. I am now considering taking said nuts elsewhere, to leave me more time for dyke plundering activities and entries of my own.