They ran blindly, clawing at locked windows, huddling breathlessly in corners, racing upstairs like horror movie heroines fleeing a psycho killer.

They ran from Vince the Cowboy Stripper.

The guests at this gathering were free to run.

Kristen Mrozinski, the bride-to-be, was not. She was trapped for the performance.

From beneath her mom-made, white bridal baseball cap, adorned with silk bows, flowers and a ponytail veil, her eyes pleaded "HELP ME!" Her face resembled a cherry tomato.

The bachelorette party -- that traditional sayonara to the single life -- was getting into the groove.

Mrozinski's rite of passage may seem passe and tasteless, or even like a weak attempt at mimicking the Neanderthal male ritual. But the bawdier side of female bonding is still kicking -- revealing itself right now to 14 squeamish women in a normally peaceful Cockeysville home.

It may not look like fun at the moment. But it's not the moment that matters. Years down the road, these naughty-girl antics will pay off in a surplus of tawdry photos and wild stories.

Remember the stripper? Remember the mango-flavored underwear? Remember how hard we partied?

So that all may be a little exaggerated ...

Who would ever know Mrozinski had enough pre-wedding problems without the prospect of a hangover?

Two days from now, Mrozinski, 28, would marry Paul Sayan, whom she met two years ago.

In the meantime, the reception tent that had been delivered was the wrong size. Several bridesmaids were ill. She had to unwrap chairs the next morning at 7.

Not to imply that she and the others whined through the evening.

Mrozinski, who lives in Sparks, was a sport, riding the bachelorette party wave. Her guests gleefully regressed into randy adolescents.

Jen Schwatka, 27, who flew in from California for the event, made it her mission to provide her friend with enough embarrassing memories for a lifetime -- whether she liked it or not.

She organized the party. She gave Mrozinski her only instructions: Wear a plain white T-shirt and an old bra. Schwatka promised to take care of the rest.

'You are being showered'

The festivities started with sexy hors d'oeuvres.

Schwatka had pierced the baked cheese puffs with toothpicks topped with tiny plastic people in various romantic positions.

"We can't understand what this one is doing," KarenAnn Barke said while holding a toothpick close to her face and squinting.

Nearby, Schwatka couldn't stand still. She mixed daiquiris, snapped pictures and picked up after people. Lips pursed, eyebrows raised, her expression screamed: "Hurry up and have fun."

"You are being showered," she announced, checking her watch. She was eager for Mrozinski to stop socializing and start opening her presents.

Mrozinski knew Schwatka's bossiness was laced with good intentions. They'd known each other since they were 5.

Opening the gifts -- including several battery-operated companions (and we're not talking Tamagotchi) -- was probably the most use Mrozinski would ever get out of them. As they were passed around, her friends blushed, flinched and offered commentary.

"This product is ozone friendly," Hope Birsh, 36, noted, skimming the contents of cherry whipped cream. "That's very important."

Surrounded by toys, lingerie and instructional books, Mrozinski smiled. "These are more fun than crystal and china," she said. "I so wanted these men's edible underwear."

Strip and run

"It's really big, so I'm going to bring it in. It's hard to lift," said Donaleigh Mrozinski, 33, the guest of honor's sister-in-law, who lives in Lutherville.

In walked Vince Ill, professional stripper. He was wearing a cowboy outfit and a George Hamilton-esque tan.

The bride-to-be pulled her hat over her face and clutched the recliner as if she was trying to disappear into the chair.

To a throbbing techno beat, Vince removed his pants with one sweeping rip, leaving nothing but a hat, boots and a neon-colored thong.

"Nothing like Velcro," Birsh quipped.

Vince descended upon the guest of honor, swiveling with little regard for the bachelorette's personal space.

"I would die!" said Michelle Vanisko, 26, a Gwyneth Paltrow look-alike who laughed so hard that tears rolled down her face. "I'm crying for you, Kristen!"

Shawn Ciocola, clad in solid black, looked somewhat irritated by the hyperactive women. "Relax!" the 30ish woman seemed to be thinking, "It's just a semi-naked, gyrating male."

Her friends could run away, but Mrozinski's only escape was in her mind. Twenty minutes into the stripper's performance, she looked like a bachelorette zombie, glassy-eyed and absent.

Soon the show was over, but Vince remained.

If he was looking for attention, he wasn't getting it. Instead of drooling at the nearly-naked cowboy, the women scavenged for what was left of the tortilla chip dip.

What's the recipe? someone asked. Is that fat-free sour cream?

Let's go already!

"You ran!" Mrozinski yelled at her friends, only half-joking.

She felt guilty for cringing through his performance.

"You didn't want to encourage him," Birsh said. "It's like petting the dog."

Birsh is Mrozinski's boss at the Maryland Saddlery, a riding equipment store in Cockeysville. Most of the guests live in Baltimore County and are co-workers at the Saddlery, where Mrozinski is in charge of the Web site.

A present had been missed: red sequined pasties with long tassels. Birsh affixed them to Mrozinski's white T-shirt with safety pins.

Schwatka struggled to mobilize the group. But many were fading already. Barely touched bottles of rum and tequila remained in the kitchen. Wasn't it time to call it a night? It was 10 p.m.

"Let's just go for a little while," she said. "Not very late."

Floor show

The Baja Beach Club seemed like a good place to continue the party.

The tacky tropical theme, accented by bras and g-strings hanging from the ceiling, promised a trashy good time.

Tonight it was dark and nearly deserted.

No matter. Schwatka was immediately at Mrozinski's side, offering to buy the bachelorette a shot. But in the meantime, Vanisko had ascended the "most loyal and attentive friend" throne.

She took Mrozinski by the arm, pulled out a black felt tip pen, and began escorting her to the men scattered throughout the bar.

Vanisko turned on the Paltrow charm. She silkily explained to the men that her pal was getting married and she'd love it if they'd write some words of nuptial wisdom on her shirt.

Two pool-playing philosophers rested their chins on their cues before scrawling on her left shoulder: Don't do it unless you know he's the right one.

Other tips included, Divorce rates are down, and other things you might find in a lame fortune cookie.

Next, Vanisko dragged her toward the DJ-in-residence.

Handsome with a backward baseball cap and sexy goatee, he wrapped his legs around Mrozinski's s waist and blew on the pen like it was a steaming pistol. He signed in a place where men may look, but shouldn't touch -- not even with a pen. What he wrote will not be repeated here.

Then he played serious get-down music and requested the bachelorette's presence on the stage.

The scruffy bartender joined her and ordered a drink named for the activities that can get a president impeached.

He sat down and beckoned Mrozinski toward him. Her gal pals watched, amazed and expectant.

After that, the bachelorette and the bartender put on a show suited to late-night cable. His pants were shed. Whipped cream was involved. Enough said.

A moment like that can't be planned. Mrozinski was officially in the zone.

Now she was dancing on a crate, sandwiched between two men. One grabbed her bridal cap hat and put it on his head.

Other couples hit the dance floor. The place was coming alive.

Her shirt thoroughly inked up with the wisdom of the Baja prophets, Mrozinski and her friends headed out, newly pumped.

Maybe it would have made sense to leave on a high note. But if, at a later date, they were going to rehash a night of wild bar-hopping, they would have to go to more than one bar.

Another bar, another bride

They landed at the Seven Twenty Three, a riotous Fells Point club.

They didn't dance. They didn't drink. They stood.

Mrozinski's tassels, miraculously still in place, attracted stares. Vanisko solicited more signings.

The bride-to-be couldn't see it, but on her back someone had written: Confusious once said bigamy is having one wife too many. Some say the same of marriage.

Out of the strobe-lit chaos, another bachelorette appeared. She wore a tiara and a black cocktail dress with lifesavers sewn all over it. She wasn't going to let single life slip away without a few more drinks -- or a few more men nibbling candy off her dress.

Mrozinski wasn't holding on to the present quite so hungrily.

If she went home now, the party would still go on. It would just be another bachelorette doing the partying.

Just before midnight, she and her friends walked out onto the crowded sidewalk.

Mrozinski thought about the tents she had to adjust. The chairs she had to unwrap. The bridesmaids she had to replace.

So what if her bachelorette party wasn't the most raging farewell to singledom on record? From the pictures Schwatka snapped through the evening -- cowboy antics, tawdry toothpicks, a Baja floor show -- no one would ever know.