Oktoberfest in Germany
Oktoberfest in Munich is the world’s largest folk festival, drawing millions of visitors each year to celebrate Bavarian culture. Held in late September through early October, it features massive beer tents run by historic breweries, traditional Bavarian music, and hearty German cuisine like pretzels, sausages, and roast chicken. Visitors dress in lederhosen and dirndls, enjoying lively parades, amusement rides, and ceremonial keg tappings.
I was invited to Germany by Maxie, a 25-year-old doctor in post-doctoral training from Germany. We met in my Cognitive Psychology class, where he attended a workshop on the psychological effects of body language in patient-doctor interactions. When he answered my blanket email about opportunities for festival study during my sabbatical, he invited me to Munich, where, he said, I could see how centuries-old traditions endure in modern revelry at Oktoberfest, observing how social drinking rituals influence interpersonal communication.
Munich’s morning light filtered through the hotel restaurant window, casting long golden stripes across the tablecloth. The restaurant was still quiet, save for the clinking of cutlery and the occasional murmur of conversation. I took my time over breakfast, knowing the day ahead would be anything but leisurely.
The waiter put a large pot of strong black coffee next to my plate, and its strong aroma cut decisively through the lingering sleep in my mind. Then this uniformed perfection of a service provider brought a small plate with thin slices of smoked ham and a few wedges of Alpine cheese, smelling sharp and slightly nutty, and five thin slices of rye bread. I had also ordered a soft-boiled egg, served in a delicate porcelain cup. I cracked the top carefully and dipped a strip of rye toast into the yolk. As soon as I finished with the egg and the sandwiches, the waiter returned with a selection of fresh bread—crusty Brötchen and a soft pretzel, both warm from the oven. I spread a generous layer of butter on the pretzel, letting it melt slightly before adding a spoonful of apricot jam. The sweetness balanced the saltiness in a way that made it impossible to eat just one piece, so I hungrily finished every little bit, washing it down with at least three cups of coffee.
The city outside was already awake, and soon, I would be stepping into a very different part of it. I finished my last sip of coffee and glanced at my watch. It was time to meet Maxie, or Hauptmann Maximilian Gläser, the captain of German Medical Corps and my former student.
Outside, the air carried a crispness that hinted at the early days of autumn. I walked through the quiet streets, the sound of my footsteps blending with the distant hum of trams. The military hospital stood within the grounds of Ernst-von-Bergmann-Kaserne, a name that still echoed its Cold War past. A young soldier at the gate checked my ID, found my name on the list, and waved me through.
Capt. Maximilian Gläser waited for me at the entrance, standing with the straight-backed posture of a man who had spent years in uniform. His freckled face had lost some of the youthful sharpness I remembered from my lectures, replaced by the settled look of a professional who had seen his fair share of difficult days, and his hair was no longer an unruly mane of fire but a stylish short cut. His uniform bore the insignia of a Bundeswehr medical officer, a career that had always seemed inevitable for him. He shook my hand firmly and offered a brief smile.
“Welcome to my world, Professor,” he said, leading me inside.
The hospital was a blend of the old and the modern. Its hallways were lined with framed photographs showing its past incarnations. We walked through a section that housed the medical museum, where glass cases displayed medical instruments from previous wars. Maxie pointed to a brightly gleaming surgical kit from the First World War.
“It’s strange to think that a century ago, this was cutting-edge medicine,” he said. “Now, I can stop a battlefield hemorrhage with a foam injection.”
Further down the hall, cadets in training worked on simulated casualties, practicing emergency triage under the watchful eyes of instructors. The air carried the scent of antiseptic and freshly laundered scrubs. Maxie nodded toward the group. “Those, too, are my students. I teach them anatomy.”
Then his eyes suddenly lit up with cold fire, and he snarled at the cadets: “Bachmann! Zu mir!” A short bespectacled young man, hardly 18, turned and came up running. “Herr Hauptmann!” he reported with a salute. Maxie gave him a long threatening tirade about something, of which I could only distinctly hear “Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann!” and “Wegtreten.” As the boy saluted smartly, Maxie responded with a brief salute, too.
“Too lazy,” he said to me. “Failed five labs. One more and he’s out.”
Honestly, I had never seen Maxie being so strict, and that surprised me for a moment, but soon he was his own smiling self.
In one wing of the building, we stopped by a collection of black-and-white photographs from the days when the hospital had been under American control. A sign above the entrance still bore the faded markings of Warner Kaserne. Maxie studied one of the images, his arms crossed.
“Different flags, same purpose,” he said. “This place has seen generations of soldiers come through. Some left walking. Some didn’t.”
After walking through the building, we stepped outside, the Munich air felt almost too light after the heavy atmosphere of the hospital. Maxie glanced at me. “I could use a change of scenery. How about the Deutsches Museum?”
I agreed, and soon we were walking through the massive halls of the world’s largest science and technology museum. In the aviation section, old gliders and early jet engines hung above our heads. Maxie pointed out a pressure suit from the early days of flight.
“A lot of modern medicine owes its development to this,” he said. “Before we had trauma centers, we had fighter pilots passing out from G-forces.”
In the medical wing, we examined exhibits on prosthetics, some made from polished wood and brass. They looked like relics from another world. Maxie showed me an image on his phone of a modern 3D-printed limb. “Now we scan a stump and print a perfect fit,” he said. “If only they had this a hundred years ago.”
By midday, hunger overtook curiosity, and we made our way to Viktualienmarkt. The market was alive with the sounds of vendors calling out their wares, the scent of grilled sausages and fresh bread drifting through the air. Maxie ordered for both of us, knowing exactly what to get. Weißwurst arrived in a steaming bowl, pale and delicate, with a dab of sweet mustard and a large fresh pretzel. A fat pyramid of Obatzda, the creamy, paprika-spiced cheese perfect for spreading on slices of dark rye sat between us on a small plate.
We sat at one of the long wooden tables, surrounded by a mix of locals and tourists. Maxie handed me a glass of Radler beer, its golden bubbles catching the sunlight. “A little lighter than what’s to come,” he said with a smirk.
“To moderation,” I said, lifting my glass.
“To survival,” he replied.
The streets of Munich had transformed by the time we finished lunch. Crowds lined the avenues, waiting for the Oktoberfest parade to begin. Brewery wagons rolled past, drawn by massive draft horses decked in elaborate harnesses. Traditional dancers in Lederhosen twirled through the streets, their bells jingling in time with the brass bands. Maxie leaned against a lamppost, watching the procession.
“Hard to believe this started as a royal wedding celebration,” he mused.
“And now it’s the world’s biggest excuse to wear funny hats,” I said, making Maxie laugh.
The heart of Oktoberfest, Theresienwiese, was a whirlwind of color and movement. The smell of roasted almonds mixed with the yeasty tang of fresh beer. Maxie led us toward one of the vintage amusement rides, an old carousel with a live brass band playing waltzes. We stepped onto the platform, and soon the slow ride began. The carousel moved with a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm, the wooden horses rising and falling beneath us as the brass band played a lively waltz. The music floated through the crisp autumn air, blending with the distant laughter and the occasional cheer from the festival crowds.
The world beyond the carousel turned into a blur of warm lights and flashes of color. The polished brass poles gleamed under the sun, and the carved horses, each one uniquely painted, seemed to come to life with every motion. Maxie leaned slightly against the movement, his posture relaxed, as if the rhythm of the ride matched something familiar in him. The city, usually so grounded and orderly, felt weightless for a moment, as if we had stepped into a world suspended between past and present, between motion and stillness.
Later, at the shooting gallery, Maxie lined up his shot with professional precision, knocking down every target. “Military training,” he said, satisfied.
I picked up the old-fashioned air rifle, its wooden stock smooth from years of use, and tried to steady my aim. The metal sights wobbled slightly as I lined up the shot, the festive noise around me making it hard to concentrate. I squeezed the trigger, and the pellet flew—not toward the center of the target, but slightly off to the side, barely clipping the edge. The small metal duck I had aimed for gave a half-hearted wobble but remained stubbornly upright.
Maxie stifled a chuckle beside me, and corrected my posture with a suddenly strong and confident touch, though his amused expression suggested he doubted it would help. I tried again, adjusting my grip, but the result was much the same—another near miss, another unmoved target. With a good-natured shake of my head, I handed the rifle back.
“I must concede,” I said. “Sharpshooting is perhaps best left to those with steadier hands and more practice.”
The evening led us into one of the legendary Oktoberfest beer tents. The air inside was thick with the sounds of clinking steins, the hum of conversation, and the steady beat of folk music. Waitresses carried massive trays of food, balancing plates of roasted pork knuckle and golden potato dumplings. We dug into our meal, the crispy crackling of the Schweinshaxe giving way to tender meat underneath.
At a smaller tent, locals had gathered for traditional Bavarian dancing, the floor alive with the rhythmic stomp and clap of Schuhplattler. Maxie plunged into the routine with effortless energy, his boots striking the floor in perfect time, his hands clapping and slapping his thighs with the practiced ease of someone who had grown up with this music in his bones. He moved with an athletic sharpness, spinning and stepping with a boyish enthusiasm that seemed at odds with the strict, no-nonsense doctor I had seen that morning at the hospital. There, he had been all precision and authority, issuing orders with a clipped efficiency. Here, he was grinning, laughing as he leapt into the movements, as light on his feet as a man half his size.
I watched from the sidelines, knowing better than to subject my knees—or the audience—to any attempt of my own. When he finally rejoined me, slightly out of breath but still beaming, he clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Wanna have a go?” he teased, though we both knew I had wisely stayed out of it.
By the time we returned to the hotel, the distant hum of Oktoberfest still carried through the night. The hotel bar was nearly empty. Maxie ordered two glasses of Enzian schnapps, a mountain-root spirit with a sharp, clean burn.
“To old students,” I said, lifting my glass.
“To professors who let us become who we need to be,” he replied.
The schnapps burned, but it was a warmth I welcomed.
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My Takeaways
I loved the fact that my Oktoberfest experience, thanks to Maxie, included a visit to the hospital and the museum, a great carousel ride and a German wurst feast, not only beer. I was happy to meet new people, and I was especially pleased to see Maxie, or Herr Hauptmann Maximilian Gläser.
After that visit I returned to Munich on several occasions, got introduced to many of Maxie’s friends, and drank, I think, about 100 varieties of beer. But that first visit still remains one of my most favorite, perhaps for its novelty and unexpectedness.
An evening with Maxie
Ah, Commands in Choke Hold!
It feels so incredible when a polite, nice and soft young man, with fiery red hair and a disarming smile sheds all signs of his kind persona when he gets naked with you, puts his strong hands around you, and fucks you standing up, with your neck in his choke hold, shouting one-word commands in your ear in deafening German! The asphyxiation makes your head spin, and the beating of the hard dick against your prostate makes you swoon in pleasant agony…
Remember Maxie, the red-haired German doctor, who took me around Oktoberfest festival grounds, and cheerfully participated in the dancing contest? We ended up sitting in the bar of my hotel.
At 3 a.m. I found myself being mercilessly fucked by Maxie in my room, after an innocent bathroom visit “before I go home,” he said, turned into what would become one of my craziest experiences as close to a rape as they come.
… The foreplay started slow—he brushed my hand, then my knee, his touch light but sure, and I felt the warmth of him even through my jeans. He suggested we head upstairs, voice steady and friendly, and I followed, drawn by the way his thin but broad frame moved, all grace and quiet confidence. The bar noise faded as we walked, his shoes clicking on the tiles, and he held the elevator door for me, a small gesture that made me grin, already hooked on his charm.
In the room, he dimmed the lights and turned to me, unbuttoning his shirt with care, like he was unwrapping something fragile. His politeness didn’t waver—he asked if I was okay, if I liked it slow, and I nodded, watching his pale chest come into view, dusted with freckles and a faint trail of red hair leading down.
He peeled off my shirt next, fingers lingering on my skin, and I caught the first hint of his strength, the way his grip tightened just enough to surprise me. His dick pressed against his trousers, a thick outline I couldn’t ignore, and when he shucked them off, it sprang free—uncut, veiny, a good seven inches with a slight upward tilt, nestled above balls that hung low and full, covered in soft red fuzz. I reached for him, and he chuckled, a low sound that hummed in his throat, his sexy face—sharp jaw, flushed cheeks, the fiery red hair—making my breath catch as we stood there, half-dressed. He stepped closer, shirt still dangling from one arm, and the faint scent of his cologne—something clean and sharp—mixed with the musk of his skin, pulling me in deeper.
The reveal kept going, unhurried, as he stepped out of his boxers and let me take him in. His body was curiously broad but very slim, yet the muscles underneath flexed hard when he moved with a quiet power I hadn’t expected before his outburst in the hospital that morning.
He pulled me close, kissing me deep and slow, his tongue polite but insistent, and I felt his dick nudge my stomach, warm and firm. My hands roamed his back, tracing the lean lines, and he murmured something in German—“Schön,” maybe—his voice soft but edged with want. I stripped too, and he watched me, his eyes shining brightly.
“Du bist schon,” he said, in that same friendly tone, like we were still chatting over drinks. His balls shifted as he stepped closer, heavy and inviting, and I cupped them, feeling their weight, which drew a low glottal hum from him.
The room felt smaller now, the carpet soft under my bare feet, and I noticed a faint scar on his hip—thin, white, a story he didn’t tell—as he stood there, all pale skin and coiled strength, waiting for my next move.
Our horniness grew slow but steady. He knelt, kissing down my chest, his hair brushing my skin as he worked his way lower, hands calm but strong on my hips. I gripped his hair, feeling the spring of it, and he looked up, that sexy face all focus now, lips parted as he took me in his mouth for a moment for just a tease. His mouth engulfed me, suddenly seeming like a bottomless abyss, then his tongue came up to work around my cockhead, and his teeth grazed the crown, ever so slightly but strong enough to make me gasp.
His dick bobbed between his thighs, thickening as he stood again, and he pressed it against mine, rubbing slow, the friction making me groan, a rough sound that echoed his own glottal hums. He smiled—still nice, still polite—but his grip on my arms tightened, and I felt his strength again, the way he could pin me if he wanted. My pulse raced as he whispered “Gut,” his breath hot on my neck, the word simple but dripping with intent.
I ran my hands down his sides, feeling the hard ridges of muscle under that deceptively slim frame, and he shivered slightly, a crack in his calm that made my own need spike, and I suddenly noticed how horny our breathing was.
Then he shifted, unexpectedly, and flipped me onto the bed face-down. His dainty look was gone now—he climbed on, his lean frame pressing me into the mattress, and one arm snaked around my throat in a chokehold, firm but controlled, like he knew exactly how much pressure to use. I gasped, the air thinning, and he thrust in, his dick sliding deep, and the stretch making me moan loud and raw.
He fucked me steady, like a rhythmic machine, all moves almost mechanical, hips snapping, his balls slapping my thighs with each push, and he muttered rough commands—“Halt,” “Beweg,” “Schnell”—each word clipped and guttural in his suddenly thick accent. I pushed back, meeting him, my groans mixing now with his grunts, and the chokehold tightened just enough to make my head spin. I clawed at the sheets and the bed creaked under us, a steady “squeak-squeak” rhythm that matched his thrusts, and I felt the heat of him—his chest against my back, his breath in my ear—every move precise, like he’d studied this, a doctor turned beast in the dark.
He kept going, relentless and automatic, his chin with a rough stubble scratching my back as he leaned in. His dick felt huge inside me, the veins pulsed and his balls tightened, drawing up. Soon his hums turned to growls, the sounds that rattled through me. I reached down, stroking myself, and he barked “Jetzt,” sharp and commanding, his voice breaking into a glottal snarl.
We came almost together—his cum shot hot across my back, thick spurts that hit my skin as I spilled onto the bed, my cry hoarse and shuddering and his growl loud in my ear. The room spun, his arm loosening from my throat, and I sucked in air, trembling, the mess of us warm and sticky between us as he slumped against me, panting.
His weight stayed on me a moment longer, heavy and grounding, and I felt the damp of his sweat, the faint tremor in his legs as he caught his breath. The air above us smelled of sweaty skin, fresh sperm, and something faintly clinical, like antiseptic lingering on him.
We lay there a minute, his weight on me, his breath slowing as he muttered “Entschuldigung”—an apology, soft and friendly again, like he hadn’t just choked me out. He slid off, offering a hand, and led me to the huge hotel shower, all glass and steam, his politeness back in full swing. The water ran hot, cascading over his freckled skin, the unruly red hair plastered down now, and he grinned, handing me soap like we were old pals.
His dick hung soft, still impressive, balls relaxed as he washed my back, gentle and thorough, humming some tune I didn’t know. I leaned into the spray, his hands steady on me, and we stood there, the roughness gone, just two guys sharing a shower, warm and easy.
The tiles gleamed under the light, water pooling at our feet, and he scrubbed his hair, suds running down his chest, his face soft again—sexy still, but kind, like the guy I’d met at my lecture hall almost five years prior. I remember wondering at the outline of his dick in his soft summer pants on day one (day one!) and wishing for the day I had just had.
My Takeaways
I was surprised to find out that I actually liked a brutal fuck in a choke hold. I guess the reason I liked it was because red hair turns me on greatly and because I knew that this ruthless fucker was not going to hurt me. Weirdly, though, surrendering my control and gasping for air I had one of the best orgasms of my life.
Maxie is gay, and a bit of a daddy chaser, so whenever we have a chance in our busy lives, we get together for sex that gets wilder and wilder every time. Now I let Maxie give me some strong slaps on the face before he throws me into the bed and collapses on top of me with growls “Beweg!” “Halt!” “Jetzt!” like I were in a war movie.
