This is how I explained the whole Cajun thing to a friend the other day (pasted from our email, lightly edited):

On the blog, he's Cajun. Lots of winking and nodding goes on when he comments. And then, lots of less subtle things go on, as well.

(when she said she thought he was a keeper, I said:)

He'd be a keeper if he wasn't out sowing wild oats for the first time in his life. This sowing thing is just the right thing for him, but he and I continue to have an intense friendship that runs the gamut from brother-sister antics to full-on passion. There are times I can't be around him because my body's chemicals are so bonded to him that I am undone. There are times being with him is the least upsetting and most reassuring thing in the world. It's downright poetic, and deserving of some flowery, pre-19th-century prose. I see it as a travelogue, with stamps from the various physical and emotional destinations we've seen.

And that, my friends, is it in a nutshell.