Thanks to Robbie Cano, baseball has a new literary metaphor: "Bunting-away on 3-and-0."

Here's how I would dimestore novel it:

As she glided across the dance floor, every masculine eyeball in Smokey's Tavern tracked her like a storm on radar. Necks swiveled in the direction of her hourglass figure, her long-stemmed legs and her mane of curly blond Lady Godiva locks. She could be a movie star. She could be a model. She moved to him, self-confidently licking her voluptuous red lips, as if to say, "I'm hungry, and I think I'll eat now." She touched his chest with a long fingernail and deftly plucked open the top button of his shirt.

"Anything you want," she breathed. "What you see is all yours. Be creative."

Harold felt a volcano rise up through his loins like an A-bomb from a new and previously undetected plane of reality.

"Do you have an email address?" he asked, bunting-away on three-and-oh.