The jabbering 12-year-old in me took hold, certain that it was a trap, a setup, like at school dances when boys had placed bets that they wouldn’t dance with me. There’s no way these people want you to get almost-naked and actually seem like you’re having a fun, sexy time, unhelpful 7th-grade me said. It’s all one big fat joke.

My co-star Steve sat near me, unfazed, while I tried to sink into my plush, purple robe and disappear. My director jokingly offered me Xanax (and I thought about taking it). Our second assistant director, Niki, very gently called me to set, rubbing my back and telling me I’d be just fine. As we got to the motel room setup, I pulled the robe tighter. My fingers were ice, and I shook in my nipple pasties and painted-on underwear. Steve joked that they’d done far worse to him on Shameless (he was assigned full-frontal nudity in the first episode). He laid back on the bed in his cowboy boots and a production assistant played thick layers of folded sheets and towels over his pelvis (this “modesty buffer” allows actors several inches of separation as they simulate sex). The room couldn’t have been more loving, supportive, and welcoming — but I couldn’t fathom that I was about to put it all out there: Not just my body, but my body, vulnerability, and sexuality combined.

Our producer, Amy, pulled me aside, saying, “You know this is not a joke, right, honey? This is going to be so important. You’re going to be so beautiful. I promise you.”

I turned toward the bed, swallowing hard. The scene was scripted with Franny on top — a strong statement. While plus women can (and absolutely do) enjoy all kinds of sexual positions, girl-on-top can bring up a lot of anxiety: What if I crush him? Does he really want to see my body like this? I no longer worried about that in my real life, but I certainly did as I mounted the movie star being paid to pretend to have sex with me.

I remembered Amy’s words as I sat atop the two feet of fabric between me and Steve, as our cinematographer lit me in ethereal dawn light. I held myself carefully, looking for any sign of discomfort from Steve. But he was peaceful, at ease. I made nervous small talk about pasties until, finally, the director called, “Action!”

I summoned every drop of bravery inside me, and we began the pantomime. Moving through the motions of simulated sex, I tried to shake off the old, anxious voice in my head and remember the woman I am without a camera on me. I thought how I move during sex, how I sound. I reminded myself that I’d banned body shame from my own bedroom, embracing pleasure and desire. I told myself that if I was too chicken to do this for myself alone, then I would have to do it for all the women of size who’d been taught to see themselves as sexless and unwanted. Finally, a timid moan escaped my lips.

The longer we shot, the more vocal I became, varying my pitch and volume. If there was anything turning me on in earnest, it was my own growing bad-assery. Despite all my fears, I realized, I was actually crushing this scene. My confidence unfurled, and I began undulating, moving back and forth and rolling my hips in time. Beneath me, I noticed Steve was relaxing too. It suddenly hit me that I was in the driver’s seat. I was fully empowered, both as the character of Franny, seizing pleasure for herself, and as Jen, the lead actress, calling the shots, setting the pace, and literally sitting in a position of power.

The scene eventually peaked in a flurry of gasps and moans and thrusts, and the director yelled, “Cut!” I felt adrenaline and pride surging through me. Someone handed me my robe, though I was no longer in a rush to cover up. If we needed to do another take, I realized, I’d be able to jump right back on the towels — no problem. I was a different person by the time we’d wrapped the scene. Terrifying though it had been, I’d necessarily embraced myself that much more. I had found my brave protagonist and brought her to life, in all her soft flesh and curves. I’d allowed her to take up space with no shame and no apologies.

My hero.