You may know me as Tasha Reign, porn actress, model, and all-around sex vixen.

I chose this profession; I wasn’t duped, or coerced, or sold into it. I love my job, and am thankful for all the opportunities the adult industry has afforded me.

I worked damn hard in school and graduated from UCLA. Countless overnighters, term papers, midterms, and final exams, all juggled with my blossoming career in the porn industry. It was a luxury — making adult films with the mind-set of a women’s studies major at a prestigious institution, fueling my drive to change the world while paying for my college education.

I am a feminist. I make art with my body. I make money with my body, too. This is my choice and my right. A woman should have full autonomy over her own body — be it having sex on camera or wearing a burkini on a beach somewhere in France. But it’s difficult for people to grasp the idea that someone can be both sexual and intellectual. These traits are not mutually exclusive. I have a brain. I am capable of free thought and complex emotions. And, I have sex on camera because I enjoy it. Bow to me.

But being a sex worker comes with its own unique, often overlooked, set of challenges, to say the least. And we are frequently blamed for many of the social problems that mainstream society would rather not acknowledge.

As a porn star, even dating can be frustrating. Every night there is a barrage of pro athletes, comedians, and other confident gentlemen sliding into my social media and hitting me on DM to “hang out,” or “date,” or “fly me out.”

Most recently, there was an NHL player who pursued me. It started off fine–friendly banter over Instagram. He liked my body, I liked his… and soon we graduated to texting. He was very charming and romantic. He wanted to meet in person, so he bought me a ticket to fly out and see him. It was lovely. I really enjoyed his company.

In the beginning of our courtship, he was very sweet. But as time went on, something in his brain switched and our romance rapidly devolved. He expressed anger at my “first interracial scene.” I thought he was joking, but he was very serious. Apparently, it didn’t bother him that I did scenes with other men, but their race was an issue. Finally, he punctuated our brief interaction with a few texts. Nicer ones like, “I’m just not looking for a serious relationship,” “I’m just not at the place in my life,” and “I just don’t want to share you.” And not-so-nice ones like, “Your parents can’t be proud of you,” and “You’re a slut.”

Unfortunately, this behavior is pretty typical. This guy actively sought me out because of who I am, was interested in dating me because of who I am, but because he couldn’t deal with the reality of who I am, tried to shame me in an effort to make himself feel better about his own shortcomings.

But he is not alone in his actions.

During my days as a college student, I was confronted by a fellow “feminist” while guest lecturing on a panel about feminism and the adult industry. This woman was looking for a fight. She scathed that she had seen a porn video in which a man called a woman a “whore” and a “stupid slut.” She aggressively disapproved. What she failed to realize is that the adult industry is a business predicated on supply and demand. The industry didn’t create the idea or the practice of degrading women. On the contrary, the video was made because there was a demand for it, by men and women. Porn is an objective reflection of what the market — and society at large — wants. Turn our culture into a feminist one, and porn will follow.

“You are perpetuating these attitudes in a society that oppresses women!” she announced. “How could you be so naive?”

“Naive.” That’s always the assumption. I was her fellow student. I was lecturing her, sharing my experiences. Yet somehow I’m dumb or gullible, because, to her, porn stars do what they do because they aren’t smart enough to do anything else. That stigma has been drilled into us from the time we identify what a “whore” is. For a porn star, this kind of sexual shaming is an everyday reality.

No matter how educated I become, no matter how much I write and accomplish and enlighten and fight, I will always be reduced by this kind of so-called feminist to what I do for a living. I wanted to shout that at her. But I was rendered unable to speak or move. I was almost in tears, actually.

I fail to see what much of the world sees — I fail to see what’s wrong with having and enjoying sex on camera. And while the social issues I encounter because of my work are all too real, there are many other financial, legal, and safety issues I face that punish me for living the honest life I have chosen.

Think keeping your legally earned and taxable income at a bank is a walk in the park? It is if you’re not a sex worker. It’s not that simple for me. Banks have the “right” to choose whose money they want associated with their business. In recent years, hundreds of performers have had their Chase bank accounts frozen and/or shut down due to being affiliated with this legal business we call pornography. I’ve had numerous accounts closed on me as well.

Can you imagine if your bank closed your account because of your job? Or because of your religion? Or because of your sexual preference? It’s demoralizing, like they think that my money and I are tainted. I wonder how many Chase executives watch porn, only to wash up, go to work, and deny me the basic universal privilege of a low-interest savings account. What if doctors and lawyers magically lost favor with banks? Or blue-collar workers?

The banking system, however, is emblematic of a larger issue: a lack of legal protections and advocacy for people who work in the sex industry.

If a college girl goes to a frat party and gets raped or assaulted, it’s widely (and correctly) seen as a tragedy. No normal person would think otherwise. But if I was still in college and I went to a frat party (which I steered clear of during my years on campus) and got raped or assaulted, what kind of prejudices do you think the police, a judge, and jury would bring to that trial?

In February 2014, a Duke freshman alleged that she was raped and was immediately discredited (in court and by her community) when it was revealed that she had starred in pornographic films. The message was clear: We are rape-able. I guess that when I decided to make a living with my body and my sexuality, I signed over my human rights as well. Yes, adult film stars are consenting adults in movies, but that certainly doesn’t mean we are universally consenting to all sexual acts. How is this so hard to understand?

Don’t worry about me. I will continue to thrive in a career that I love. But I would also like some semblance of a sane social life, a reliable bank account, equal legal protection, and to engage in a normal conversation with someone from the mainstream every once in a while. Attacking a sex worker is fairly easy, but I fear that the problems I face are more deeply rooted in our collective DNA as a way for some to protect themselves against a larger societal shame that limits their life choices.

So my question remains: If I have the balls to get naked on camera, why don’t so many others have the balls to fucking get over themselves?

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