looking over from the edge of the bed at the crumpled pair of underwear on  the floor

The crumpled pair of underwear on the floor were grey with a red pattern.  they were laying upon their side, the half open top facing sideways.   They look like some sort of giant sea clam that had gotten drunk and somehow had developed a flaccid shell.  The flaccid shell with the acid smell.

What had those underwear witnessed?

Flashes of grey and pink.  Coarse wiry hair and smooth skin.  Rumpled skin.  Acidic hot sweat tainted with the biproductive acid of microbes.   Flakes of dead dry dead skin and a variety of secretions.  Blasts of hot air accompanied by explosive sonice booms of varying intensity.  sometimes not much more than a whisper.     Sometimes the secretions were solids that became trapped in the weave, only to dry out when exposed to air.  Often in these particular instances that taut expanse of fabric would be subjected to frantic digital manipulation directly above the warm spot.  Pokes and pulls, in and out, side to side.

They were worn thin from years of good honest service.  Many of their contemporaries had moved on from the top drawer and seen no more.  Others had grown threadbare and even developed open wounds.  Others still suffered from collapsed waistbands as thee elastomers grew brittle with age.   It had been a long time since the population boom of the top drawer.  So much so that barriers had begun to break down between the bikinis and the boxers and the traditional cut types.

Where once certain types always waited at the back of the drawer, nowadays it was veritable underwear orgy, with pair next to pair in a pellmell frenzy.   They were even beginning to welcome socks in. It was widely held that a sock could be relied upon to carry on a polite conversation, although they could get a tad randy if they overstayed their welcome.